#cake verse

[kayessbeebeebeee]

I'm somewhat interested in the cakeverse but at the other hand I can't just read someone saying that they are a fork/cake and take it seriously.

[cakeisnotpie]

Bonds of Old

"He Who Swings the Sword" -- Chapter 9

Rated: M

For the complete story go here X or AO3.

“I’ll tell Philip,” Clint nodded and peeled off from the front of the line to ride back to where Philip and Bruce were. There’d been no time to argue, nor did Clint want to debate Philip’s plan in front of all the holders. It did, after all, make sense to have two groups, one to aid the survivors at the Crossroads and another to protect McCarter land. If Clint didn’t like Philip and Bruce leading the relief team, he certainly hadn’t been onboard with Melinda and Andrew coming along, but the woman had originally wanted to go home. Only her husband and sons’ intervention had convinced her to aid the others instead. Philip was more than capable of keeping himself whole and healthy – Clint had seen that during the bandit attack – and Natasha and Annamarie could certainly handle the defense of the Manor. No, if Clint was honest with himself, his discomfort was an itch in the middle of his back he couldn’t scratch and didn’t make logical sense. 

“We’re ready,” Philip said as Clint dropped in beside him on the trail. “We’re taking five fighters with us and two horses with supplies.” They couldn’t spare more; Clint had been insistent on leaving enough men back at the manor in case this was a feint to lure them away, and Philip had agreed. Mayor Garrett had set about checking the town defenses even before they departed at an ungodly hour of the morning.

“It’s probably a good day and a half from here if you take it easy.” Knowing Melinda, she’d refuse to take a slower pace and they’d make it in less than that. “The Inn’s not defensible. Find a better place to stay …”

“Clint, I know what I’m doing,” Philip broke in calmly. “You could just say that you’re worried.”

“At least take Jessica with you.” Clint was doggedly determined.

“You need her more than we do. One hundred of them to your thirty, Clint. I should be arguing you out of it.” Philip reached over and brushed his fingers along Clint’s arm. A warm flow of energy spread from the touch; he’d been doing that since late yesterday and Clint was becoming more than a little addicted to the jolt. Gods, but they hadn’t had any time to talk at all, not since yesterday morning in bed. Clint had no idea what had happened with Loki, nor could they get into it here on the road. When Natasha had told him about Loki’s overture, seen by Garrett no less, Clint had wanted to find the Prince and put an arrow in his eye. Now, Loki and Sif plus four Asgardian warriors were part of this battle plan; how did things get so turned upside down? Clint wasn’t even sure that Loki was his enemy anymore, maybe just a man who liked to cause mischief and was jealous that Clint had lucked into the best prize, one Philip Coulson.

“I don’t plan on a frontal assault,” Clint assured him. “Defense is the best offense. We’ll get there and establish the perimeter. Sif has some ideas on how to effectively take out these living dead.”

“And you trust her?” Philip asked, the question reminding Clint of their discussion last night, no, two nights ago. It took a crisis to make him realize just how much he depended upon this man.

“No, but I believe she wants to learn how to defeat these things. That I can use.” He looked at Philip’s face, the tightening of his lips that signaled unease. “There’s only four people I trust right now to have my back. Nat, Carol, Jess … and you.”

A shadow lifted from Philip’s eyes, and he relaxed a little. “We’ll be fine, so you don’t have to waste time thinking about us. Focus on your own skin and don’t get yourself killed. I was kind of looking forward to having more time together,” Philip said, voice pitched low so the others couldn’t hear. Bruce was behind them, and he’d dropped back a bit to give them more privacy.

“Phil,” Clint turned, his horse dancing a little closer. “I plan on being around a long time; don’t worry.”

“Worry is what I do.” Phil shrugged. His fingers found Clint’s thigh for a light graze.

“Besides,” Clint continued, feeling a rush of heat that settled into his groin, his cock stirring. “I did promise to show you how to ride double. And I keep my promises.”

A flush crept up Philip’s cheeks as he remembered their conversation at the exhibition. “There are people around.”

“We can ride ahead to scout the trail.” He leaned over until he could whisper in Philip’s ear. “I want to be inside you right now.”

“Clint,” Philip almost choked on his name. “That’s not helping matters.”

“I don’t know, the thought of you riding me helps take my mind off how tired I am and how much I want to dump Loki in a ravine.” Clint was close enough to see the way Philip’s breathing quickened. The road narrowed as they wound down the side of a hill; McCarter Hall was on the outer edge of Barton Hold, in the foothills. The road wasn’t the easiest even in good weather. As they rode two abreast, the trees hedged them in and Clint lost sight of the rest of the men for a brief moment.

They came in silence, striking not the head of the column, but the vulnerable middle. A man, clothed in moldy leathers, lunged for Clint. Two skeletal figures moved faster than anyone would imagine they could, reaching for Melinda and catching at her skirts. Three of the biggest wolves Clint had ever seen burst from the other side of the road and lunged for the horses’ legs. Lucky danced sideways, bumping into Lola; both horses were trained for combat and lashed out with their hooves. Swinging his elbow, Clint knocked his attacker back and spurred Lucky forward, riding the few feet to where the trail widened and turned. Shouting a warning to the others, he grabbed his bow and strung it, years of practice making the action quick and automatic. By the time he had an arrow notched and turned around, Philip’s swords were out; he smacked a skeletal figure with the flat of one blade then the other. Bones splintered and its arm flew off, sword flying into the tree line. Lola turned and kicked out with her back legs; the bones rattled and scattered as the revenant staggered back.

“You stop that,” Melinda shouted. “You hear me?” Wargs snapped at her heels, and she swung her small dagger in an arch, drawing a long line of blood across one’s snout. Its teeth caught the edge of her yellow riding skirt, ripping long shreds of material as it tried to yank her off her horse. Andrew was trying to get to her; his horse reared up in fear, nostrils flared. Behind them, Bruce wheeled around, a small mace in his hand, smashing anything within reach.

The pull of the string centered Clint, and he calmed enough to hear the music, to tap into it and wrap it around the arrow before he let fly, the point burying itself in between a warg’s eyes. Another one took the dead wolf’s place, a group of four circling Bruce, Melinda and Andrew, taking turns darting in to slash with their claws and nip with their teeth. A revenant targeted Clint; he shot it, but the arrow didn’t do more than slow it down. Rising in the stirrups, Clint swung his bow, knocking it backwards a few steps, but its sword caught his calf, drawing blood before Lucky turned away.

“Take the wargs, I’ll cover you,” Philip said as he rode the attacker down, trampling it under Lola’s hooves. “There’s too many of them.”

It was an intricate dance, Philip weaving back and forth to keep the others from getting to Clint, Clint moving constantly for the best shots. Just when Clint thought they were making headway, more wargs came out of the trees; three surrounded Melinda, and one sank his teeth into her ankle. She screamed and slashed at it, but she was already off-balance and sliding towards the ground. 

“Melinda!” Clint heard the distant shout of Richard McCarter coming up behind him, but there was no time to stop her from going down into the sea of gnashing teeth and sharp claws. Clint fired at any target he could get – legs, torsos – earning some yelps of pain. 

“I’ve got you.” Andrew stretched from his seat, craning over to catch Melinda’s sash then the back of her dress, pulling her back into her saddle. He gave her palfrey a slap on the rump; it jumped and broke through the line of attackers, Melinda barely holding on as it raced past Clint and Philip’s position, both of them parting to let her ride through and on to safety. But even as Andrew tried to pull himself upright, a warg jumped, biting down in his arm and using its weight to drag him to the ground. Flailing, Andrew disappeared in a sea of fur, delighted yips and growls as they pounced.

“Cover me.” Philip was spurring his horse before Clint could tell him what a stupid idea it was, riding right into the middle of the pack. A cold pit of fear settled in Clint’s chest as wargs turned and lunged for Philip, swelling up inside him; instead of shoving it down, Clint reached for it and it flared like a fanfare, tempo increasing in the tune, spreading out to his arms and hands, settling into his muscles. Everything fell away, his eyes sharp and clear; arrow after arrow he sent winging into the fray, each on a perfect hit, and the wargs dropped, one by one, clearing a path for Philip to Andrew. Dipping in the saddle, Philip caught Andrew’s bloody hand and swung him up before him. Slumping over, Andrew lay limply along Lola’s neck; a silence fell as Bruce finished off the last attacker.

 “We need to get out of here,” Clint told Philip. “They know we’re here. Stealth isn’t an option, so now it’s a race.”

“His wounds need tending,” Philip argued, nodding towards Andrew. “Even if we ride hard it’s still a good few hours until we’d get to the Crossroads.”

“No. We’re all going to McCarter Hall.” Clint turned to Carol as she rode up to them; she’d been further ahead. The fight had been so short, she hadn’t had time to aid them. “No stopping. Do what you can for him as we go.  We’re better off together.”

“Clint!” Jessica rode into the clearing, bringing up the last of the fighters. She took the whole scene in with a glance. “We got ten more of these things coming up behind us; they’ll be on us in minutes.”

Curse the gods, but this was just getting worse. “Carol, put Melinda in the middle of her sons and get the rest of the troop on the road. Phil, take Andrew and go with them. See what you can do, but don’t look back. Jessica and I will buy you time.”

“Clint,” Philip objected. “You’re almost out of arrows.” He didn’t have to say it; Clint could feel the wash of energy from his husband, the fear and concern. The warmth blasted into Clint, giving him a jolt.

“Let me take him,” Loki offered. He, Sif, and his men were just beyond Carol. “I can work on him as we ride. Sleipnir will be happy to bear her favorite groomsman.”

“And I will stay with you,” Sif said, urging her horse next to Clint. “We can catch up with the others after we are victorious.”

Clint had only a quick glance with Philip before he nodded. “Pass Andrew over, Phil, and get the hell out of here. Carol, you’re in charge.”

“No need,” Bruce spoke and Clint, for the first time, really looked at the clerk. Green sparked in his normally brown eyes, sworls of color running down his neck as he breathed hard. “I’ll stay.”

“Bruce,” Philip began.

A howl sounded, coming around the curve; Bruce slid off his horse and tossed the reins to Clint. “Don’t worry. I’ll find you.” Within steps, the man changed, tossing off his quiet demeanor and shrugging out of his body as easily as unhooking a cloak. Clint could feel the magic stir the air as Bruce grew larger, a growl coming from his barrel chest as he thumbed his fists together.

“Berserker,” Carol breathed quietly. To most, a berserker was only a legend, stories of warriors of such passion and anger that whole legions fell beneath their swords. Clint, however, had met one before, an animal of a man who was as lethal as a warg, savage but with a moral compass that kept him from becoming a monster.

“Go!” Bruce rumbled as three wargs charged into sight.

“This will be fun,” Sif said, jumping off her horse and walking up to Bruce, sword at the ready.

“I should …” Clint started to follow suit, but Carol nudged Lucky with her own horse.

“You should lead the rest of us to safety.  I have a feeling they’ll be on our trail the whole way if they’re not already waiting for us,” she suggested.

No matter how much Clint wanted to stand and fight, he wasn’t the leader of a company of warriors anymore. He had to think about more than just his own thirst for retribution. Reeling in his anger, he turned and rode away, leaving the woman in armor and the clerk turned berserker behind him.

They rode like the devil himself was on their heels, pushing their horses to their limits. Despite her injury, Melinda kept up, saying not a word of complaint, just growing paler; she’d bandaged her leg herself and the best they could hope was to get to the hall in time to heal it. Andrew was in and out of consciousness, Loki doing what he could. Howls followed them, mixed sometimes with roars. Clint tried not to dwell on it, but he kept seeing Andrew falling and Bruce changing, his people, all of them, in danger from something beyond human. What he wanted was answers, but all he had were more questions, jumbled with no rational explanation.  He’d almost convinced himself that this was about finding some artifact, the one the bandits seemed intent on locating. How the object was related to revenants, dead animated bodies, and wargs, Clint didn’t know.  Neither the McCarter holding nor the Crossroads were places the bandits had searched, so Clint couldn’t see a connection there. And the bandits had definitely been alive, if controlled by magic. There was that at least … magic. Magic to compel men to do a sorcerer’s bidding. Magic to bring the dead to life. Magic to control creatures.

He forced himself not to steal too many glances at Philip; the blood on his hands reminded Clint how easily it could be Philip’s own, not Andrew’s.  Dwelling on Philip’s presence – and the fact that he was supposed to be heading the other direction to aid the wounded not riding right into the heart of the oncoming battle – wasn’t helping.  Gods, but this was not a problem he foresaw before the marriage. Clint had worried about mutual dislike or antipathy, lack of trust or desire; he’d never imagined this protective urge that smothered his senses and changed the way he made decisions. He didn’t want Philip in danger or hurt; in fact, Clint would love to have Philip waiting for him back at the manor, safe and sound. That fantasy sidetracked his mind for a few minutes – Philip in bed, a roaring fire, maybe a hot bath after a difficult battle – and Clint knew Natasha would cuff his ears if she knew he was wishing for a husband who counted the minutes until he returned.  Philip was an experienced fighter, and the manor wasn’t always a safe place as everyone had learned two years ago, Clint knew. It was just that something so domestic, someone who cared enough to worry, someone who wanted Clint in his bed … that was more than Clint ever thought he might have.

Sif caught up with them just after they crossed over into McCarter land. Even with Bruce riding behind her, his exhausted face ashen as he held on tight to Sif’s waist, Sif’s horse ran fast enough to find them. She was grinning, blood on her swords and sweat on her face, and she insisted Bruce ride with her the rest of the way. Thirty minutes out, they met a rider barreling at full-speed in the opposite direction, one of the younger grandsons, no more than fourteen, sent to bring a message to Barton Hall that a force was approaching. The hold, he said, was preparing, the women and children being trundled off to safety while the men manned the battlements. Relief showed on all the faces when they finally rode through the palisades and into the main grounds of the hall; the Laird took charge, shouting orders. Clint spared a moment to see Philip down from this horse, share a quick touch, and then there was a siege to prepare for.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

“Put him down on that bed,” Philip ordered the two young men carrying Andrew. A fire blazed in cellar hearth, pots of water already heating, and shelves filled with various herbs and medicines.  Behind them, Melinda’s daughter, Nell, was helping her mother settle into a chair and elevate her mangled ankle onto a stool.

“Nell, dear, run and get the broken bone kit before you go. I think it’s in the solar where we set little Fannie’s arm last month,” Melinda said. “Get Jamie and Bryce to start bringing more beds for the wounded. We’ll use this area for triage.”

As the woman left, Philip got his first good look at Andrew’s wounds and his heart fell.  Loki’s magic had kept Philip from bleeding out, but the damage to his body was overwhelming. His whole left arm was chewed up, long gouges in his midsection, and both legs were flayed down to the bone in two places.  With a restless moan, Andrew tried to open his bloodshot eyes.

“Melinda?” He asked weakly.

“All good,” she pertly replied, starting to rise. One of the men, clearly a relation judging from his facial features, put a hand on her shoulder.

“The Laird told us to guard you, even from yourself,” he said. Melinda shot him a perfectly chilling mother’s gaze.

“Benjamin Beecher, I am your mother, and I can still whip you if need be.” She scowled, but stayed seated; Philip hadn’t missed the grimace of pain as she put weight on her foot.

“I agree with the lad, my dear.” Loki swept in the room, looking as if he’d just had a leisurely ride, not a hell bent chase through the countryside. “I shall work on our Andrew here. Sleipnir will pout if he is not there to brush her mane.”

Bruce slouched in, exhaustion writ on his every movement, hanging back by the door, eyes taking in the room. He made a move towards Philip, but stopped, waiting for permission.

“Bruce,” Philip nodded the clerk’s way. “We’ll need to make up a poultice for Warg infections. The Prince said he knew the ingredients?”

“Indeed. A fairly simple one will work for wounds like Lady McCarter’s; we just need a few odds and ends.  Make a basic puncture wound salve, but add charcoal powder and Echinacea oil.  Have them bring down potatoes and sprinkle a slice with mustard, charcoal and Echinacea. Makes a good emergency treatment if they need to wait.” Loki bent over Andrew’s body, peeling back strips of fabric, slicing away his pants with his dagger.

Still hesitating, Bruce glanced at Philip.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, boy,” Melinda said, much more gently than the words belied. “You’re not the first berserker we’ve had around these parts, although you’re the most unexpected, I give you that. Gods, you should have met Old Willie Frasier; the man went off to fight for the king and came back one stubborn son-of-a-bitch with an attitude problem. Still, right handy fellow to have in a fight.”

That got a tentative smile from the clerk; he stepped out of the way to let Nell into the room, and then headed for the shelves to begin working.  Philip took the basket from Nell’s hands and knelt by the stool.  For a few moments, they were all busy with their tasks, Philip cleaning Melinda’s wound and finding, thank the gods, that her ankle bone was intact, just wrenched muscle. Bruce brought over the first batch of the poultice, Nell having run off to the kitchen for supplies. 

“Philip, if you please, I may need your help,” Loki said, voice pitched low as Melinda made plans with Nell and the two men to establish an infirmary for the coming battle. Andrew was sweating, each touch of Loki’s long fingers making him thrash in pain; Philip didn’t see how the groom could survive the extent of the damage done.  “He resists the healing. A man’s will is a strong impediment; tell him he has worth, that he needs to live. Or else I cannot aide him.”

Dropping to his knees by the bed, Philip took Andrew’s untouched hand, squeezed lightly and leaned over to brush a bloody mat of hair from the man’s face. “Andrew,” he called. Only a moan greeted his words. “Andrew.”

“Phil,” Andrew drawled, lengthening the short word. His normally intelligent eyes were dulled with pain.

“Are you going to stay with us?” Philip heard the tiny sigh that Andrew made, a hopeless sound. “We need you.  You’re part of the company; we depend upon you.”

“Third …. Wheel.” He coughed up blood and had to catch his breath. A cool wind blew along Andrew’s chest, but Philip didn’t look away from Andrew’s face.  “All I know.”

“You’re more than that,” Philip promised. “Besides, I thought you wanted to prove me wrong. What happened to showing me up?”

That earned him a choked laugh. “Hated you a bit, yeah.”

“I’m expecting you to be running the stables in less than a year.” Loki was working on Andrew’s legs now, the stirring of power strong and certain. “And arguing with me about how to do it.”

“Even after?” Andrew’s eyes began to sag, his body relaxing as Loki’s spells eased his pain.

“Men have needs,” Philip shrugged. “It was before I had any right to have a say.”

“You make it hard … to dislike you,” Andrew whispered. “Can we buy some Asgardian horses?”

He slipped into sleep, his breathing deepening. “Best if he is not awake for this part,” Loki said, burrowing his hand into the deepest claw marks along Andrew’s stomach. “Keep hold of his hand and put two fingers on his forehead.” Hesitating, Philip looked askance at the Prince. “Yes, yes, I know. You don’t trust me, and well you shouldn’t. I could easily be a villain for all you know.  Yet I would show you how to draw the infection out. In cases like this one and the tinkers, you’ll need more than a salve and a bandage.”

Pressing the tip of his pointer and middle fingers in the center of Andrew’s forehead, Philip felt the circuit close, the cold gust of Loki’s magic blowing through him. Carefully keeping his own magic at bay, he focused in on the energy, the way it flowed, how it found the low spots and filled them. Coldness met edges of raw flesh and turned them to a freezing liquid that ran together, bringing Andrew’s body back together.  Philip watched the changes, equated them with the rise and fall of magic, and began to have an inkling of how it worked. Then he saw it, a pocket of darkness that pulsed like a shadow heart, beating with a different time.

“What’s that?” He asked, the scholar in him fascinated.

“An echo of the original caster. Our warg friends are not in this battle of their free will.” Loki reached for the pocket, casting out a frigid tendril; the darkness recoiled, tried to escape, but Loki surrounded it and pulled it free, freezing it and crushing it as he lifted it up. “You have the right of it, Philip. Trust no one, least of all me. There are forces at work beyond anything you’ve known.”

Loki’s bloody hand covered Philip’s, both their fingers touching Andrew, and Philip shivered at the blast of arctic chill that ran up his arm. His whole body shook, and he yanked away, breaking the connection as Loki’s bowed his head over Andrew, tired from his labor.

“He will need watching; I can only heal him to a point.” Loki brushed off his leather pants. “He is out of danger so I will go.”

Philip pushed up and stood; he felt Loki’s eyes following him as the Prince left, and he couldn’t shake the ball of ice that settled next to his heart.

“He’s a piece of work, is he not?” Melinda broke the silence. Philip eyebrows shot up as he looked at her. “What? He’s a charming devil, but slick with words and a manipulative little shit. Just because he’s handsome doesn’t mean I can’t see that; he looks fair, and I certainly know what that means. Whatever he’s said, believe the opposite. And trust Clint. He’s a good man.”

“If I preferred women, I’d fight Richard for you.” Philip wanted to hug the woman; he’d needed to hear that very common sense advice. “Bruce, you need sleep.  We can handle this; lie down and get some rest. I have a feeling we’re going to need all hands we can get.”

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

Clint took the glass of whiskey and sipped it as he looked over their plans one last time. Richard McCarter knew his lands intimately, including the best perches for archers.  Impressive; Clint hoped one day he’d be as good a leader of his people as Richard. If they had time, they could mount an iron tight defense; even as it was, they could hold off a large number of attackers from house on top of the headland. The meeting in the Laird’s study had been more “yes, sir” than discussion, but Clint was adamant about using his company to the best of their abilities. Carol was in charge of the Southern defense along the main road, Jessica manning a fast strike team, and Clint in a perfect position on top of the women’s tower. Sif and her warriors were to hold the Northern side, the Prince staying with the Lairds.

“You should rest,” Philip said from the doorway. Shutting the door, he crossed the room and sat down a tray with a bowl of fragrant stew and some bread. “At least eat.”

“Are you my nursemaid now?” The question was sharper than Clint intended it to be; he exhaled and tried again. “Not that I don’t need one. It’s just … a long day. How is Andrew? Melinda’s probably running the show, I imagine.” He picked up the spoon and dipped it into the savory broth.

“She’s got the whole cellar set up as a healing ward. Her daughter is staying too; they both refuse to go with the others. The King should recruit Melinda; she could run the kingdom and everyone would love her.” Philip leaned against the desk. “Andrew’s out of the woods, but it’s going to be a long recovery.”

“Loki?” Clint saw the way Philip stiffened slightly at the name.

“The man has a talent for getting under your skin, doesn’t he?” Philip was tense, his energy leaking over into Clint.  “He needs watching, Clint. I can’t help but think he’s part of all this, more than we know. He warned me not to trust him.”

“Playing both sides, our Prince,” Clint agreed. He’d been thinking the exact same thing. “Working my lack of trust, trying to seduce you, being helpful, charming people … manipulation, plain and simple. Question is, what does he want? And what’s his role in all this?”

“I was thinking about it on the ride here and can’t make sense of it. When he offered for me, he couldn’t know I would end up married to you; all the bandits and attacks and searches centered in your holding, so there’s no connection.” Philip rested weight on his hands and jiggled his foot; Clint bumped his knee against Philip’s. 

“Don’t worry, between Carol, Jessica and I, we plan to keep Loki in our sights.” Clint had already discussed the very thing with his thanes. 

“I should be with you. Bruce can handle the healing,” Philip resisted.

“You’re our last line of defense, Phil; we need to play to your strengths. The cellar has a passageway that leads into a series of caves; you’re the guard of the doorway that’s our escape route.” Clint certainly hoped it didn’t come to that, but he knew he trusted Philip to keep the way open.

“I know, it’s just …” Philip closed his eyes and huffed out in his exasperation. “I’m finding it hard to remain … detached, objective. Emotion clouds judgment in battle, and I’m compromised.”

Clint waited, let Philip spin out his words, sentiments that echoed with his own feeling. He, too, was finding it increasingly impossible to not let his heart influence his decisions.

“I never imagined I’d come to care for you like this.” Philip practically hid his face as he admitted it, ducking his chin towards his chest and turning his eyes on anything but Clint’s face. “You distract me, Clint.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Clint admitted, glad to get it off his chest now, before it was too late. In any skirmish, no matter how small, there was always the element of risk. “If I could talk you into staying back at the manor, I would have. Doesn’t make sense; I’ve seen you fight and know you’re capable of defending yourself. It’s just a rock in my gut telling me to keep you safe.”

“I think, though, we’re stronger together. Sharing.” Philip took Clint’s hand and the warmth built between them. “And that’s an advantage others won’t have.”

“You’re right.” Clint sat down his bowl and turned, facing Phil, nudging his legs apart, stepping between them, and leaning down, resting his hands on the desk on top of Philip’s. Clint knew he’d never be able to sleep, too keyed up to relax, but there were other ways that were more enticing. “Sif said something about how Loki wasn’t ready for us. She might have a point.”

He dipped his face and nuzzled the spot on Philip’s neck that always made him sigh. The slightest breath across Philip’s ear and Philip’s eyes drifted closed, shoulders dropping as he exhaled. It was addicting, the feel of Philip’s skin beneath his lips, and Clint felt immediately better, more energized as he dragged his tongue along the sworls of Philip’s ear. He pressed Philip, tracing the line of muscle that ran down his neck, nipping lightly before starting along the jawline where dark brown scruff scratched Clint’s cheek. When he finally got to Philip’s mouth, Clint drifted along the bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth and sucking on it until Philip squirmed, lifting his hands to circle around Clint’s waist and cling to him. Tilting him back just a bit more, Clint brought their hips in alignment and started a slow, easy slide.

“The door isn’t locked and should we really be doing this?” Philip asked, voice husky with desire; Clint was busy leaving a mouth sized bruise on the underside of his chin.

“Don’t care. This is better than sleep. Can you feel it? Like a strong cup of coffee.” Hands clasped Philip’s hips and tugged him tighter; Clint’s half- aroused cock nestled next to Philip’s, grinding together .

“You’re comparing me to coffee?” Philip asked with a laugh that turned to a moan as Clint ran his hand along Philip’s thigh and hiked Philip’s leg around his waist.

“Yes, and that’s a compliment. It gives me energy, keeps me going, and I can’t live without it.” He watched the startled look chase across Philip’s eyes as they darkened with pleasure.

“Gods, Clint,” he groaned as he drew Clint in for another kiss, more involved and insistent. They kissed, holding each other as if this was their last moment, bodies rubbing together until Clint could stand it no longer. Dropping to his knees, he untied the laces of Philip’s pants, freed his swollen cock, and licked the flushed head. He looked up as he took the full length in his mouth, reveling in the weight and the fullness of it, and saw the bliss on Philip’s face.

Holding onto Philip’s hips, Clint pulled back long enough to say, “Put your hands on my head.”

The warmth of Philip’s palms matched the heat coming from Clint’s fingers where he touched the bare skin along Philip’s hip bones, and the music started, strong and sure. As he took Philip’s cock back in his mouth, the melody became more than just notes and chords, swelling into movements and themes that repeated and mixed together in different parts and harmonies.  Clint opened himself to it all, this song that was their own, the taste of Phil, the way his own cock grew heavier with need. Hands and mouth and then their eyes caught and it was like a funnel of pure energy flowed and built inside him. The clenching of Philip’s muscles warned him as much as the way Philip’s fingers clenched into his hair, then the salty bitter taste flooded his mouth, and he swallowed, nursing Phil through his orgasm.

He rose while Philip still had his eyes closed and leaned in for the lightest of kisses; despite the urgent reminders from his own cock, twitching with need, Clint was riding the music, and it was more than a physical need now.  As much as he wanted to straddle Philip’s leg and grind himself along the strong muscle of his thigh – which he did -- Clint wanted to wrap Philip up in his arms and let the rush of the notes carry them along to the crescendo.  But fingers fumbled with Clint’s laces and then Philip’s whole hand circled him, thumb sweeping up the leaking liquid, and they rushed the finale, Philip stroking Clint’s hard length in time to the rhythm of the song. Clint was gone when the melodies crashed together, becoming one theme that swelled and released. 

“Tell me you heard that?” Clint asked. Surely, Philip had felt it, the way Philip’s magic made Clint’s so much more.

“I’d say everyone heard it, but I don’t seem to have destroyed anything, so maybe not.” Philip laughed, his lips against Clint’s, the words flowing into his mouth.

“Clint, Johnson has an idea about a floating battering ram that he wants to hang up outside the kitchen shed … Oh, oh, okay, oh, I’m closing my eyes, oh.” Jessica turned her back and shut the door firmly, still sputtering. “The door wasn’t locked, I didn’t know, I’m sorry. Oh, bugger, Clint, you could use a room, you know.”

“Tell Johnson to run with it. Anything blunt force will work better than sword point. Just don’t waste time; if it doesn’t work, move on.” Clint rested his forehead on Philip’s and grinned, enjoying the blush that flooded his husband’s face and, for once, throwing Jessica off. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes. And make sure everyone gets something to eat. The stew’s good.”

“Right. I’ll just …. Let myself out.” She fled the room as Clint dropped a kiss on Philip’s nose.

“That was better than a nap,” Clint said, loathe to let go. “You can help me rest anytime.”

Philip held Clint’s face steady for one last long kiss. “Stay alive. I’m getting used to having you around.”

“If you get yourself hurt, I’ll be very upset. Might have to tie you down and keep you all to myself.”  He pushed back with great effort. 

“Go on.” Philip’s hand slipped away and Clint felt the loss, but he was still buoyed up by the energy. “I’ll be here.”

Clint went to check on the preparations, humming a nameless tune under his breath.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

The waiting was the worst. Clint could sit patiently for hours for a perfect shot, but he didn’t like it. Thinking of everything that could go wrong, having to focus for long periods of time … no, waiting was as much a part of warfare as the actual battle itself and strong men broke under the strain of not knowing when the fight was going to begin.  Walking along the top of the women’s tower, a corner section of the hall with the best view of the surrounding area, Clint paced back and forth, making William and Theodore shrink down when he passed the spot they’d chosen to hunker down behind the wall. From here, he had eyes on Carol’s forces, staked out along the outer palisade, and Jessica’s spread along the back curve of the fortification. He could see Sif and the other Asgardians patrol their section, and the Laird’s men growing as restless as Clint felt. An occasional howl reached his ears, forewarning the arrival of their adversaries.

McCarter Hall was a sprawling complex of wings built off the oldest part of the structure, the main hall. Generation after generation had added on as they needed room and most of the family still lived within the thick stone walls. The bailey housed most of the usual buildings – blacksmith, armory, kitchen, stables – with a tall wooden defensive wall enclosing the grounds. Cotholds and cottages were scattered about further away, but most of the hold’s necessities were inside or could be moved there in times of emergency, like now. The rest were farther flung, shepherd huts and farmers and craftsmen who chose to live in the hills; the Laird had sent a warning out to them as well, but most hunkered down in their own homes with whatever protection they already had. Of those close by, the elderly men, too old to fight, had joined the women and children down in the caves that ran beneath the tor, accessed through twisting passages that would be impossible to navigate unless someone knew exactly which turns to take.

He looked at the rest of the roof, the archers in their places behind the crenellations, and checked one more time the guard manning the towers on the palisades. Then he turned his eyes to the east, scanning in the distance for movement; calming his mind, he took a deep breath and expanded further, bringing the trees into sharp focus. Leaves swayed in the wind, the temperature cooler near the mountains, and he saw low bushes shake as a grey haired form slunk through the branches. As if it could sense Clint, glowing blue eyes lifted and looked right at him, nose sniffing the air. They were coming and coming fast.

“Teddy, spread the word. Half an hour,” Clint ordered. Theodore jumped up and ran along the walkway, telling everyone as he went. The boys were the only means of communication Clint had; his perch might be an advantage, but he still had to get the information to the others.  During their years traveling, Clint had made habit of rescuing kids and putting them to work; fast and agile, they’d gotten messages through in even the toughest of situations. William had once managed to cross a square filled with rioting sailors in record time to warn Clint about an angry rival who was going to take advantage of the chaos to take his revenge. And if he happened to save them from a far worse fate, well Clint wasn’t all that kind-hearted, not really.

When the attack came, it was swift and brutal. Wargs burst from the tree line, charging forward; they bunched their hind legs to spring up and over the heads of the men on the wall.  Carol was ready, however, and a volley of crossbow bolts cut through the pack. Troops hit the palisade, some of the literally crawling hand over hand to get to the top. From the other side, Clint heard a shout and turned in time to see a smaller groups attacking at regular intervals around the wall, engaging all of the defenders and keeping everyone busy repelling them. Clint’s world narrowed down to the end of his arm, his outstretched fingers and the sharp tip of the arrowhead as he targeted mostly wargs, taking them out before they could do any damage. As soon as one quiver ran dry, William handed him another, and Clint kept going.  It seemed they were holding them off, each new wave repulsed. Carol powered through any that got inside the wall, Jessica’s fighters were strung out into strategic locations, smashing hands and heads as they tried to come over the top.  Sif’s fighting was a thing of beauty; Clint caught only quick glimpses as she moved faster than even Natasha. Despite their larger numbers, Clint began to think they had a real chance of holding them off for good.

A loud crack and then a crash as the outer gates burst open; how, Clint didn’t know, and he didn’t have time to think about it. The moldy and decaying bodies darted through, almost overwhelming Carol’s position. Laird McCarter came around the corner and swept down upon them, swinging his two-handed claymore and severing head after head. The bodies dropped, unmoving, once their spines were severed.  Behind Clint, the revenants and wargs doubled their attempts to break the wall, pressing them all to their breaking point. Clint kept firing, barely aiming at all, still hitting each target; his arrows did little against the men who weren’t men anymore, but he did the best he could. A large trunk of a tree swung across the now open gateway, clearing a path through the attackers, scattering the undead and knocking the giant wolves aside. Johnson’s device worked on the return swing as well before he cranked it back and let it fly again, the force of the heavy object doing more damage than the edge of a sword. 

A flash of color caught Clint’s eye near a side entrance of the house through Melinda’s rose garden. Familiar black hair gleamed and black leather clad arm opened the door, stepping back to allow the revenants and wargs access. Notching an arrow, Clint stared down the line of sight just as Loki looked up at him and grinned, arching an eyebrow and nodding. Loki was double crossing them; he was letting wargs loose in the house, and he was inviting Clint to come get him.

“Tell Carol that they’re in the house,” Clint ordered Theodore who’d returned from his earlier errand. “William, find Philip to warn him. Be careful; the wargs have a heightened sense of smell. You have my permission to take any route to stay safe.”  Throwing the trapdoor open, Clint swung William down until he caught the ladder and scrambled away. Clint followed, sliding rather than using the rungs as Theodore ran off across the roof. Taking the stairs two at a time, Clint didn’t bother to hide the noise he was making, hoping to draw attention to himself and away from Billy who had darted into the upper solarium. Clint skidded as he turned a corner and ran the length of the family wing, straining to hear any sounds that might give away where the others were. Running, he hit the landing above the main hall and came to a stop; Loki stood where the musicians usually performed, waiting.  Three wargs growled, at heel beside Loki’s lanky form; down below, undead fighters fanned out into the different hallways, searching for prey.

“I tried the nice way,” Loki said, the sadness of his voice marred by the glee in his eyes. “But we’ve come to this and, I must say, I don’t exactly mind. You vex me, Clinton Barton and I will have done with you.”

Clint trained his arrow on a spot between one warg’s eyes.  He could maybe take two before the third got to him.  “I win the bet; you’re evil. Still, I have to wonder how your mother feels about it.”

“My life is none of your business. You trespassed on what should have been mine.” Loki’s eyes narrowed, but Clint caught a flicker of uncertainty. “Speak not of my mother.”

“Okay, how about Sif? Is she in on this with you? Your right hand in madness?” Clint pushed, looking for a crack in Loki’s demeanor to exploit.

“The Lady Sif is beyond reproach, far too noble to do what must be done to protect our people,” Loki spat, growing angry. “I, on the other hand, will do what’s necessary.”

“Including killing innocent people and calling the dead from their graves? That’s sorcerer territory, Loki.” Maybe Clint’s best bet was to aim for the Prince himself, a sacrifice play to end this.

Loki composed himself and turned cold again. “Just call Philip and we can get this over with quickly. I won’t promise it will be painless, but I can make it fast.”

“Um, no.” Clint didn’t flinch as the wargs stepped closer. “Always been about getting your hands on him, hasn’t it? I bet it burns you inside that you missed out.”

“I thought it a waste of such power … until I met you. The two of you together will serve nicely for my purposes.” He reached out his sword, tip pointing towards Clint’s chest. A sickly green light began to gather at the hilt and spread outward. “Now, call him and let’s be done.”

“He’s not within hearing distance,” Clint pointed out. “I can shout all I want and he won’t hear me.”

“You are such fools who know nothing.” The green energy shot out; Clint’s bow grew cold, so cold his skin froze and became numb. “Think of him, let him feel your terror and he’ll come.”

“Sorry. No terror here.” Clint tried to hold it but the bow slipped from the fingers he couldn’t feel anymore. “Not going to help you at all.”

“Fine. Make this difficult.” Loki nodded and the wargs bounded forward; Clint’s arms were sluggish and slow. Before he could move, teeth closed around his left forearm, and another set held his right calf, neither breaking the skin, just keeping him immobile.  “Pain will suffice.”

Clint heard the bones break in his forearm as the Warg closed its mouth. Bright red blood ran down his fingers and he fell to his knees when his leg gave out, agony from where the second wolf was chewing. He refused to lose consciousness, holding on to thwart Loki’s plan, to keep Philip safe. This was all about Philip; sure he was just a means to an end for the Prince, Clint wasn’t going to let him win. Drawing on the well of energy inside of him, Clint drove the pain into the distance. The handprints on his arm and chest flared to life, sending sparks running along his skin; the animals growled and backed off, shaking their snouts.

“Good. That should do the trick. He’ll come to save you, and I’ll have him as well.” Loki stepped closer, towering over Clint as he placing two fingers on Clint’s forehead.  “Radix malorium est cupidas.”

The song was a strident march in a minor key, and it swamped Clint, playing in his mind as it took over his body. Not a cold wind, a blizzard that whited out Clint’s vision and drowned out the joint song of Philip’s magic. He tried to scream, but the sound only echoed in his head, trapped by Loki’s magic.

“You’re mine now. And you’re going to find it for me.” Loki’s voice was inside Clint’s chest, bouncing around the hollow space.

“Clint!” Distant, barely heard in the onslaught, Philip’s voice called to him but Clint was slipping away. Even the heat of Philip’s marks were fading.

Then he heard it, a thin tune, barely more than a few notes, out of time and out of tune, but his. He focused on it and it grew stronger, adding a major harmony to the terrifying song Loki was weaving. Fingers flexed where they lay on his thigh, and Clint’s hand moved to the throwing dagger tucked into the top of his boot. It took every bit of strength he had, but he closed his palm around the hilt, let the song run along his arm and into the silver before he flipped it out and plunged it into Loki’s thigh.

“Son of a bitch,” Clint cursed as soon as he could breathe again without cold burning his throat. He twisted the blade, cutting close to the vein, hot blood splattering on his face. “You can’t have him.”

Loki fell back and grabbed at the wound; purple sparks engulfed his hand as he tried to yank out the knife. The wargs rushed in, but he waved them away with a word, bowed his head and shuddered. When he looked back up at Clint, his eyes were wide in shock, his face even paler.

“You have magic of your own. He didn’t foresee that either.” Loki sat on the floor and laughed, a rueful sound. From below, Clint heard footfalls and swords clanging; someone was coming. “For Odin’s sake, finish the bonding. That’s the only thing that will protect you. Find it before I do and use it against him.” Muscles in his face clenched, and Loki struggled to continue speaking. “Tell … Sif … I know how to access the treasure room … she needs to … stop me.”

His body shook violently, and he groaned, folding in on himself before he looked back up. An eerie blue glow filled his eyes and his face went blank. “He will get what he wants. With you or without you.”

With a gesture of his hand, Loki disappeared, leaving only a smear of blood and three very agitated wargs circling Clint. Closing his eyes, Clint fixed the image of Philip’s smile in his mind as he waited for them to pounce.

[cakeisnotpie]

Bonds of Old

Chapter 9: Of Trysts and Tournaments

Rating: M

The ground was slick, cavern vast, ceiling lost in the darkness above him. Every sound echoed, bouncing among the rocky teeth, water dripping off the ends. No light but the green glow of the walls – Philip was lost, tired, and the ice was crawling up his legs, freezing cold through his pants, and encasing his bare chest. He struggled, brushing at it, trying to move his foot or break it with his hand, but it kept growing.

“I need you,” Loki said, nothing but a shadowy figure beyond Philip’s sight.

“No.”

Long fingers, pale hand stretched out, Philip bent back, away from the touch. The townspeople split around them, moving towards the square, as if they weren’t there at all. Tendrils of chill spun from the contact, covering Philip’s chest in patterns that became letters then joined into words.

“Your magic is strong.” Loki was close now, his eyes as cold as his spell.

“No.”

He was drowning in ice, Clint’s handprint on his jaw the only heat he felt. Loki reached for him, his breath forming crystals that clung to Philip’s cheek as they danced to the fiddle that played behind them.

“We’d be good together, I promise,” Loki whispered in his ear.

“No!”

Searing bands circled his body, one around his waist, the other curving around his shoulders. So hot that steam rose, obscuring Philip’s vision. Loki waivered and became insubstantial then solidified again. The walls of the cave reflected the torch’s flames, glinting off the curve of metal that was there and then gone.

“He can’t have you,” Clint said, tightening his hold. Philip leaned into the heat that was driving back Loki’s magic.

“Clint.” Philip felt the power bubble up inside of him along with the welcome desire that always accompanied Clint’s touch. His back arched and his hands found Clint’s skin, the smooth ridge of hip bone to cling to.

“Soon.” Loki’s last words as he faded, leaving just Clint and the insistent tug of his fingers as he unlaced Philip’s pants and stripped them off. The dream changed with each stroke of Clint’s hands -- the hold of a ship, captain’s quarters, the library at the university, the Abbey ruins, and back to the familiar cavern – and Philip groaned as Clint filled him, easing inside from behind. Clint’s hands splayed against Philip’s skin, one on his chest the other on his hip, radiating power into Philip as Clint slowly rocked in and out.

“I’ve got you. I’ll protect you,” Clint whispered into his ear as Philip came fully awake. They were sweating in the heat of the fire, skin rubbing against skin, and Philip moaned, the sound loud in the pre-dawn quiet. Clint’s fingers tightened around the curve of Philip’s ass, thumb digging just below the bone, and snapped his hips, driving into Philip hard and fast. A jolt of pure pleasure flashed up Philip’s spine; taking Clint’s other hand, Philip wrapped both their fingers around his aroused cock, stroking in time to Clint’s thrusts.

“The star to my wandering ship.” Philip had no idea where the words came from; they rose up with the magic and magnified the scorching heat of Clint’s hand imprinting his mark. Coming with a cry, Philip’s vision went white as he floated on the energy high. When he came down, he was lying on his back; Clint sprawled beside him, breathing harshly. Clint’s fingers left an echo on Philip’s skin that tingled.

“I dreamt that Loki took me; he wanted you. It was a different dream than the others, full of ice and cold, and I couldn’t save you.” Clint’s eyes were closed as he spoke, his fingers curling into frustrated fists.

“What other dreams?” Philip pushed up onto his elbow and turned to look at Clint. “I’ve been having dreams since I left TarianCastle. Loki’s been in them.”

“Caves and green walls and glowing blue eyes. I can see you, but can’t get to you.” Taking the hand Philip offered, Clint clung to him.

“You marked me,” Philip said. He rested a hand on Clint’s chest. A second mark; Philip could not remember reading about two claimings. They were in completely unfamiliar territory.

“Didn’t really think about it, I just know in my gut that Loki’s going to try something.” Clint’s other hand wrapped around Philip’s neck and tugged his head down for a slow, leisurely kiss. “One mark is good then two must be better.”

“Agreed.” Philip deepened the kiss, licking the seam of Clint’s lips until he parted them to let Philip in. As their tongues tangled, Philip let the energy go, imagining it spreading across Clint’s body, an invisible armor that sank into his skin. “Your worth unknown,” he whispered into Clint’s mouth.

“Phil,” Clint’s fingers spasmed along yesterday’s mark and Philip shifted over on top of Clint. The power exploded outward, their bodies at the center of a widening circle that rattled the heavy bed, pushed books off the shelf then blew through the room and down the hall, rumbling out of the manor. Philip was lost in the taste of Clint, the way Clint’s chest rose and fell under his fingers, the power not draining, but recasting itself into something new, unique to them both. Flames blazed on the stone hearth and Philip felt the warmth of Clint’s body all the way to his toes, mark calling to mark, making some sort of harmony, quiet and faint music that escaped when he tried to focus on it.

A knock sounded on the door, and Clint broke away from the kiss. “We’re fine,” he called out. Whoever was there went away without a word. “I think we just announced ourselves to everyone.”

“Loki already knew after last night’s attempt to work magic on you. And most people are still abed, so they might think it just a tremor.” That’s what Philip hoped anyway. The plan had been to keep their magic a secret; needless to say, they’d failed at that.

“Are you suggesting the earth moved when I kissed you? I’m flattered.” Clint laughed softly, twirling a lock of Philip’s hair between his forefinger and thumb. Gone was the unsure man from yesterday, the one worried about trusting Philip. This was the Clint Philip had come to know so well, the ready smile that charmed him. Another kiss, longer, easier, an exploration.

“I have so much to do this morning,” Philip sighed and laid his head on Clint’s chest. “But I’d rather stay here.”

“We’ll just send our apologies to the Prince, say that we’ve business in the manor and that Carol, no, better yet, Natasha will be happy to show him around the Faire.” Clint set about thoroughly convincing Philip with kisses as potent as any drug, making his legs weak and his resolve falter. What harm would it to do to stay locked in Clint’s arms for a few moments longer? Philip knew that once he left the warmth of this chamber, the intimacy would be tested by Loki and all the demands of the day.

As if on cue, another knock. “Water, my Lords,” the new chambermaid called through the door.

“Come,” he said. When Philip went to roll off of Clint’s chest, Clint stopped him, covering them with the quilt, but keeping his arms loose around Philip’s waist. Philip ducked his head in embarrassment as the young woman entered, bustled about for a few moments then left the room.

“Annemarie asked me to tell you she’s got the boys up and working already on setting up tables. Thane Danvers is at the practice field going over the lists for today’s competition. The Lady from Asgard is with her.” The maid gathered up their laundry to take with her.

“Thank you for stoking the fire earlier. Nice to wake up to a cozy room.” Clint seemed comfortable chatting with the girl; Philip couldn’t ignore the way Clint’s thigh was gliding up and down his own.

“Oh, no, Milord. That wasn’t me. Maybe Annemarie.” With a quick curtsey, the maid left.

“Subtlety is not Annemarie’s way,” Clint grumbled. “But I should go down and check on the preparations.”

“Breakfast first. Today will be long and Loki will be working his wiles.” The simple statements had done their job; both men accepted that they had to get moving. Washing up and dressing, they swung by the kitchen for a bowl of warm cinnamon oatmeal with golden raisins and honey, heading to the hall with a cup of coffee. The faint first rays of the autumn sun were filtering through the high windows when Philip saw Clerk Banner seated alone, eating his breakfast. He hesitated, glanced at Clint who nodded and went to sit next to Bruce. The clerk looked up, dark circles under his eyes and a pale wildness about his face.

“Well, that wasn’t noticeable. Just shook the tables,” he half-mumbled.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” Clint asked. Bruce shrugged and took up another spoonful of the warm cereal.

“I’m headed to bed now. It took most of the night to … calm myself.” Bruce didn’t seem to know how to explain his situation or whether he even wanted to try. Cocking his head, he looked both of them over carefully, curiosity chasing some of the exhaustion away. “What’s happened?”

“Have you ever heard of a claiming? And marking someone twice?” Philip asked, his voice pitched low so no one else could overhear.

“Claiming, yes. That story, remember, the one about Lord Roger’s Thanes, just before the Battle of Howls. Rogers claimed each one and gave them his protection. There was a ritual ….” Bruce’s eyes widened. “Yesterday at the practice field and during dinner? You marked each other?”

“And then again this morning.” Clint added that part. “Loki made a feint at me last night with magic. Very cold, icy magic.”

“Interesting.” Bruce’s eyes closed for a moment then they flew open again. “Not that he tried to, no, I mean, the cold, another kind of magic, so many at once, when there were none.”

Philip looked at Clint and they silently agreed. “Bruce, you need rest. You’re not making any sense. We can talk about this later.”

“Yes, I mean, no. I’ve never heard of two claims by the same person, or different people, or just two at all.” He was blinking at the raisin sliding off his spoon. “The Red Sorcerer used to coerce people with the spell, turn them into walking bodies without their souls, just automatons that followed orders.”

“I heard those tales growing up around here. Red eyes and pale skin; my brother liked to tell them to scare me, how the Sorcerer would come get me and make me his slave.” Clint nudged Philip’s knee under the table and rolled his eyes towards Bruce whose spoon was almost all the way down into his bowl, slipping out of his fingers...

“All right,” Philip stood up and stepped around beside Bruce. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“I can make it myself,” Bruce complained, but he let Philip help him up as he swayed. “You both have duties; I’ve imposed enough upon your hospitality and gotten in the way too much.”

“If you’re thinking of sneaking away,” Clint said, taking hold of Bruce’s other arm. “I’d advise against it. You’ve got some explaining to do first, and we need a researcher. Philip doesn’t have as much time for his books now that he’s running the Hold with me.”

“Not running. Not yet. Maybe later. Need to find out what’s going on.” Bruce’s words were slurring together as Annemarie saw them coming through the doorway; she bustled ahead and helped get Bruce’s bed turned down.  Aiming him towards the bed, they dropped him on the edge so he simply had to fall onto his back. His eyes were closing before they got his boots off and they left him snoring lightly as they shut the door.

“I’ll see everyone leaves him alone, the poor dear,” Annemarie said. “Out wandering around all night in that condition.”

“Condition?” Philip couldn’t help but ask, wondering what the woman knew or had figured out.

“I saw him dart into the trees when I went out to check that the tables had been cleared. Big and green … it’s been a long time since there’s been a berserker in these parts. My grandfather used to talk about a mighty warrior from the mountain tribes who could change like that. Imagine the quiet clerk one of them? Hard to fathom.” Annemarie glanced at the closed door. “Of course, Grandda used to tell a farfetched yarn about magic gone awry, but no one believed those.” She patted Clint on the arm. “Anyway, Edda said that you thanked her for the fire? Wasn’t one of us. I thought it was you; the temperature did get colder than expected last night. First thing a hedge wizard learns is to stoke a fire.”

Philip’s stomach dropped as he watched her go, her easy acceptance of magic both soothing and upsetting. He’d been so cold in his dream; could he have fanned the flames in his sleep?

“Handy trick if you did,” Clint answered the unspoken question. “Not having to get out of bed on cold mornings could be handy. Actually, I think I remember a conversation about not getting out of bed at all.”

“I wish staying in bed was an option.”

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

So far, Philip’s day had gone very well. The Prince of Asgard liked to sleep, preferring to emerge later in the afternoon rather than early in the morning, so Philip enjoyed busy, but peaceful hours filled with expected emergencies like confusion over stall assignments, a roving band of young boys intent on stealing their breakfast and lunch from the vendors – thank the gods Theodore, William and Nathan were on their best behavior, dressed in their Barton livery as they spent their handful of coins around the marketplace – some complaints about pickpockets, and a few last minute arrangements for the evening’s entertainment. He could hear the cheers from the tournament rising and falling as he helped Annemarie fill the carts with pasties to take down to the field. The only black mark on his day was Sam’s absence; the tinker had been adamant that he was going to be back before today, last night at the latest. Saturday was a prime selling day and Luke had their wares out in the front yard of his shop, but Sam was missing. The big blacksmith was trying to appear unaffected by his cousin’s missed deadline but Philip was worried enough for the both of them. Sam was never late. He made his living off of being exactly where he said he would be.

Shifting the basket in his hand, Philip glanced up at the sun’s position, estimating the time at just after noon, maybe one o’clock or so as he rounded the end of the Guard House and headed towards the Lord’s box, a rather hastily arranged wooden structure with a good view of the field. Clint’s main job for the day was to serve as the judge for the various games; he was seated there now in a chair they’d rescued from the study, Jessica on his right hand and Loki on his left. Sif and another Asgardian soldier were with the McCarters, near the Huskeys and the Frasiers. The sight of the black haired prince made Philip’s stomach clench; today, the man was wearing black again with only the smallest traces of green, his hair not slicked back but loose and curling around his face. It softened his face as did the smile he aimed at Clint before he turned to the man seated on a footstool between them. Philip recognized Andrew, the groomsman’s face covered by a fall of brown hair as he leaned in to hear Loki’s response.  Leaning a shoulder along Clint’s leg, Andrew faced the Prince, flirty and friendly. Philip could see it then, why so many people found Loki attractive; the man was the epitome of charming.

Philip stumbled, catching his toe on a tuft of grass, the only outward show of the way his emotions plummeted, a stab of worry pressing into his chest. Despite the perfect fall weather, he shivered as if caught in a cold crosswind; Clint looked up and their eyes met, his gaze almost a physical touch, marks warming like phantom hands holding him tight. The doubt faded to a dull ache, and Philip heard it, the faintest sound of single notes. He wasn’t as good at hiding his feeling as Clint or Natasha but he did keep walking, only the small break in his stride noticeable to Loki’s keen sight. As he walked up the wooden steps, Philip managed a smile by keeping his focus on Clint.

“I’ve brought you a gift basket from our Chatelaine. She feared there would be none left at the tables, so she sent these.” Philip addressed Loki, bending slightly at the waist as a sign of respect.  Pulling away the cloth, he sat the basket on the floor between Clint and Loki, near Andrew’s feet. The array of pasties was warm from the oven and the aroma wafted out. “Our options are chicken with cranberries and sage or pork with cabbage and raisins. I’ve been warned the pork is spicy with some heat.”

“Ah the famous pasty? I believe I will try the spiced pork.” He picked it up with his fingers when Philip pointed to the correct one.  Like a fine wine, he smelled the pastry before taking a bite, savoring the taste. “Excellent. The chilies are delightful. I rarely see such spices this far north; I keep trying to get our cooks in the palace to try new things, but they are such traditionalists. I may have to tempt your cooks away.”

“I wish you good luck with that endeavor,” Clint said as he took one of the chicken pasties and offered the basket to Andrew. Philip signaled to the serving girls and they brought more cider or mulled wine to refill glasses.

“We were talking of horses; Prince Loki’s palfrey is an amazing animal,” Jessica supplied as she snagged a spicy pork. “Quite spirited.”

“Sleipner is a handful, I give you that. Very high strung, but I love her like she was my own child. Your man here is the first Midlander I’ve met who can handle her. Very impressive.” Loki said.

“She’s a beautiful lady and just needs to be treated that way.” Andrew shrugged and Philip was impressed with the man’s calm. “Stroke her the right way and she’ll ride well.”

“Oh, this place continually surprises me. Much more fun than the capital and the court, I can tell you.” Loki threw his head back as he laughed, a throaty sound that was honest and real. “Perhaps she’ll let you mount her later, Andrew; she’s quite taken with you and will pout all the way home if I don’t let her have her run.”

“I’d be honored,” Andrew said, eyes twinkling with good humor. “And I promise I give her the best rub down afterwards she’s ever had.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Laird McCarter laughed. “Let her have her lead, rub her down, and keep your woman happy … ouch,” he complained as his wife kicked his shin.

“Sit with us and eat, Philip. I’d wager you haven’t taken a moment to yourself today.” Melinda said, nudging Jessica’s shoulder, but the Thane was already moving to give Philip her seat next to Clint. Sif made a spot for her and handed her a full mug.

“The morning has been good, but those do smell delicious.” A memory of how the morning started flashed in his mind and Philip knew he was blushing despite his best efforts. Clint grinned and ducked his head to try and hide it which did nothing to help, so Philip tried to change the subject, “How go the games?”

“Well. The log toss was a crowd pleaser; one of the Huskeys won only because Liam McCarter drank too much mulled wine. His log went the furthest, but knocked over the equipment racks.” Clint shifted in his chair, sitting his drink down so he could stroke the back of Philip’s hand; energy leaked between them without any effort. Loki’s eyes drifted to their hands, and he noticed.

“I saw the last few throws.” Philip took a mug of cider, sipping it to keep a clear head. “I thought Deirdre Frasier had a real shot at winning.”

“Did you see Carol and the Lady Sif’s tosses?” Jessica asked.

“What? No! I missed that. How did that come about?” Just the lightest of touch from Clint and Philip’s brain was stilling. He was always thinking, worrying about what had to be done; sitting here with Clint, even if Loki was nearby, Philip could see the good in the world not just all the what ifs and what needed to be done.

“I challenged Thane Danvers to a feat of strength after we saw the first toss. It was enjoyable, if more difficult that I imagined. It’s not simply a matter of picking it up and throwing; you need balance and aim, plus you have to take into account the aerodynamics of the length and the weight.” Sif reached for a second spicy pasty.

“That’s Sif’s way of explaining why Thane Denver’s log went further than hers,” Loki said with good humor. One thing Philip had already realized was that Loki took pleasure in poking open wounds. “But neither of them bested the winner.”

“You’ll laugh when we integrate a toss into our training regime,” Sif arched an eyebrow. “I think it would be good for the soldiers.”

“And Volstagg will be the best at it, behind only my brother, aye,” Loki laughed and let the subject drop.

They continued to eat as the field was set up for the archery contest. The basket emptied quickly as did the pitchers; before the first bowmen lined up to take their shots, Philip leaned to Clint. “I have to go; there are arrangements to be made still for the performance and I want to check on a few things.”

“Of course.” Clint’s voice betrayed nothing, but Philip felt the little pulse of energy, the softest notes in accompaniment. Be careful and don’t get lost. Maybe it was his own fears from those dreams that made him hear things. Melinda stood and brushed the crumbs from her dress, an ochre colored yellow that made her skin even more sallow. When combined with her McCarter plaid drape, she clashed in a particularly violently way today.

“Well, I for one am ready for more shopping. There’s a haberdasher with the most delightful hats that Lady Thomas told me about. Real peacock feathers on plaid tams, and he’ll dye them whatever color I want.” She used her ample hips to her advantage and pushed her husband aside.

“What, woman? There’s archery then the jousting! You’d have me leave now to get you some more fripperies? You’ve got enough hats and scarves and shoes and gloves for the whole clan as it is,” Richard protested.

“Did I say you had to come? No, I did not.” She turned to Prince Loki. “Have you been to the marketplace yet, your Highness? I’d be honored to show you.”

“That sounds delightful,” he stood, all grace and fluid movement. “We would join you, if that’s alright, Lord Philip?”

Clint gave Philip’s forearm a quick squeeze; Loki noticed that as well.  “I would be happy to escort you,” Philip said.

Sif went to stand, but Loki motioned her to remain seated. “Stay and enjoy yourself. Scald can accompany me along with Bernard. Lady Melinda, Lord Philip and I will be fine.” She inclined her head in acknowledgement and watched them go.

“Don’t spend all my money, woman!” Laird McCarter shouted. “And take that dratted boy with you to carry things.”

“Married how many years and you still don’t know that telling her that will make her buy more?” Leo Huskey asked. “See, Clint, you have the best of it. A sensible spouse who knows when to spend money and when to save it. I hear he’s a haggler, good man …”

The voices faded behind them as Loki shortened his strides to keep pace with Melinda’s shorter legs, and they joined the flow of people heading to visit the stalls. The town was packed, streets almost overflowing at this time of day; people were coming in from distant villages, Stark lands and even further. Most, Philip suspected, wanted to see the rebuilding process and gawk at the new Lords, or they wanted to hear the entertainment. Whatever the reason, the numbers meant more income for the local farmers, taverns filled to overflowing, and record sales for the craftsmen and artisans.

“I see your royal court is as isolated as ours,” Loki said. “They believe this hold to be on a downward spiral. Obviously, they are wrong. Part of this is due to your hard work, I imagine.”

“These are good people, hard workers. They just needed the right push,” Philip replied. He didn’t like compliments, especially when he did not deserve them. Clint had been well on his way to earning the people’s respect before Philip had arrived; he would have made things better, maybe just not quite as quickly.

“Modesty. A difficult trait to find.” Loki rested his hand briefly on the small of Philip’s back as they maneuvered around a mother with three children haggling over new shirts. “I find myself regretting more and more the lateness of my suit.”

“I need work, to be busy. Idle hands are not my life.” Philip carefully stated his answer for the question. “I have read about Asgard, enough to know that your mother and sisters have the court running smoothly.”

“I have my own household,” Loki said, “which I fear is in poor repair since I’ve been away.”

“What do you think of this one?” Melinda turned, a monstrosity of a hat upon her head, bright red with three peacock feathers curling over the curved brim. “They can dye the feathers yellow.”

Philip was at a loss for words but Loki was not. “My lady, no mere hat can match the beauty of your soul. You are radiant in whatever you chose to wear.”

“Oh, my, you are good,” she blushed. “But that doesn’t help me decide. What about this one?” She replaced the red with a low tam that was Black Watch plaid, one long feather hanging over her ear. “In McCarter plaid, of course.”

“To honor your clan? What an excellent idea.” Loki smiled. “We’ll take both, my good man,” he said to the craftsman.

“I’m afraid Richard wouldn’t agree to that, your Highness,” Melinda protested. “He’s a proud man.”

“Then we just won’t tell him, will we?” Loki bent his head down and whispered as if conspiring. “Now, let’s set a good price.”

Philip watched as Melinda bargained the haberdasher down from his opening bid to a very reasonable price for both hats. As Loki directed his servant to pay the final amount, he glanced at Philip, humor evident on his face, not at Melinda’s expense but pure delight in her company. He stepped back and amiably bumped his shoulder into Philip’s. Once the hats were safely ordered, they continued on their way. Melinda, as it turned out, was a champion shopper. She stopped at stall after stall, buying linen for new tablecloths, muslin for sheets, a length of yellow wool for a new coat, the same dried spicy chilies that were in the pork pasties to try at home, jewelry for her daughter-in-laws, and wooden toys for the younger children. The boy accompanying her was loaded down with parcels by the time they came to the silver shop next to Luke Cage’s smithy. The pieces in the window were delicate and with unusual patterns dotted with various gems. Philip’s eye was drawn to a cloak clasp with amethysts set into interlocking links that curved back around and never ended.

“A Josephine knot. Very fitting.” Loki said, looking over his shoulder. “Fine workmanship …” he faded off, his eyes caught by something else. “One moment.” Stepping inside, the Prince asked the older woman behind the counter to see the piece. Silver filigree wound around a small moonstone, colorless with a slight blue sheen, one of the finest quality stones Philip had ever seen. The whole pin looked like a spinning wheel, but more abstract.

“Lord Philip,” the woman curtsied when she saw him. “Welcome to our store. Can I show you anything?”

“The amethyst clasp, if you will,” he asked, his attention taken by the way Loki stroked his long fingers along the curves of the pin; his face, for the moment, was open and unguarded.

“A wedding gift for Lord Barton? It will look good with a matching cloak for his new vest, if I may say.” She laid the clasp down on a piece of velvet. “And you, sir, that’s a fine bit of work there. My husband designed it himself part of a series in honor of his mother’s passing. She made tapestries, spinning the wool into thread and dying it herself. She was a good woman; raised a passel of sons, all of whom are craftsmen.”

“The workmanship is excellent.” Loki turned it over in his hand. “My mother would enjoy a memento. How much?”

“Well, it is special to him and the stone is top water, so I couldn’t let it go for less than 50 gold.”

“Come, come, Madame. This is lovely work, but I could buy a piece signed by the King’s royal jeweler for less than that. Five gold is more like it.” Loki settled into the game and seemed to relish the interaction as they went back and forth, the woman pretending to be affronted by the low offers and Loki finding even the smallest flaws. When they arrived close to each other, Philip slid the clasp over beside the pin.

“What if I buy both? 30 for the lot?”

“Sold, Milord.” She smiled; the price was fair plus her husband’s work would be on display at the manor and even the far flung royal court of Asgard. Bragging rights, indeed.

“Philip, I cannot let you,” Loki protested. “’Tis for my mother.”

“A gift from her almost son-in-law, then,” Philip said. He counted out the money and handed the small bag to the prince.

“Your Highness,” the shop woman curtsied again, abashed at her ignorance for not recognizing Loki. “Had I known I would have offered you the pin.”

“Nonsense,” Loki flashed her a disarming smile, and she melted beneath his regard. “Such art deserves to be compensated. Besides, I do so enjoy a good haggle. Feels almost like a hunt; such success when you don’t over or under pay.”

Melinda came in the door and had to see what they had purchased to ooh and ah over. Then she had to look at the other jewelry, and Philip slipped outside to check; there was still no tinker’s wagon in the smithy yard. Loki stepped up behind, his hand falling on Philip’s shoulder. Wrongness engulfed Philip, a primal fear that made him jump and turn quickly. He needed to see Loki, an instinctual reaction to keep his enemy in his sights.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Loki’s voice soothed.

Philip tried to smooth over his action with a laugh, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears. “Woolgathering, I guess.”

Loki slipped his hand under Philip’s elbow and steered him a few steps back between the buildings. “I had been hoping to ask if you are pleased with your place here. I feel some responsibility for the situation since, as you mentioned, you were almost mine to take care of.”

“I am very content.” Loki’s up and down emotions were making Philip uncomfortable. They’d already given too much away, and today had actually made Philip start to see the Prince as more human and less a threat, at least until a moment ago. “As I said, I can make a difference here, help these people.”

Loki’s knowing blue eyes speared Philip. “I asked if you are happy, not if you are working hard.”

“I am.” He began to sweat and energy churned in his gut, reacting to Loki’s blunt question and the man’s proximity. But there was nowhere for the magic to go without calling attention to itself, so he shoved it down. 

Loki stepped forward, Philip stepped back and he felt the wall against his back. “I rarely feel regret, but I find myself wondering what might have been.” Long fingers brushed Philip’s hair behind his ear, leaving little trails of ice that wound along Philip’s cheek and down to his jawline where they met Clint’s mark and dissolved like snow in the sun.  Tilting his head up, Philip found Loki’s lips hovering close to his.

“Your attention flatters me, your Highness, but I am quite satisfied with my husband.” Philip tried to state it plainly; he needed to get away and find somewhere to release the magic that was threatening to boil over. “More than satisfied, in fact.”

“Yes, I see that even if you don’t. Two-thirds of the way there, and you still are in the dark,” Loki mused, stroking the back of Philip’s hand and sending more tendrils up his arm where they melted away. “Fascinating,” he murmured, tracing the line of Philip’s belt and making the mark on Philip’s hip flare to life. “Too bad really. I would have enjoyed teaching you, but one cannot fight the whims of that bitch Fate. It will be interesting to see how this all plays out.”

“There you are, My Lord!” Mayor Garrett came to a stop near them. “Am I interrupting something?” He didn’t bother to hide his interest, just waited, taking in every detail of the moment – Loki’s hand on Philip’s waist, the closeness of their bodies.

“No,” Philip said, moving away from the wall; Loki easily stepped back. The best reaction was to have none at all. Garrett was a gossip of the first stripe; his version of what he thought he saw would be all over town within the hour. “Do you need something, Mayor?”

“We’ve a problem with the staging, it seems. Not enough seating in the square; they want to move out to Kirk’s fallow instead, but Kirk is none too keen on the idea. Perhaps if you spoke to him,” Garrett said. “I’ll be glad to take the Prince on a tour if you need me to.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Loki said, ice in his voice directed at the interloper. “I shall see Lady McCarter about and then return her to her husband. You two go on and prepare for the musician.”

“I’ll tell them you’re on your way, Milord,” Garrett said, leaving after one more sidelong glance back at them. Philip wanted to close his eyes and sigh, but there was too much energy churning inside for that.

“Best find a way to disperse that magic soon,” Loki leaned in to say. “Holding it in will only serves to distort it, turn it wild, and untamed magic leads to disasters like your friend, the clerk. Learn to release little by little throughout the day. A free lesson in return for the gift.”

He left Philip standing there, unable to think of any reply or even a protest, just that he needed to get to Clint before the rumors reached the practice field. Luke was speaking with customers, so Philip headed to the food vendors, finding Madge’s stall where she was doing a brisk business in fried pies, delightful bites of apples, dough, and powdered sugar. Ordering enough for all those in Clint’s box, Philip started to give the delivery boy a message when Natasha appeared beside him.

“I’m heading that way,” she said. Patting Philip on the shoulder, she picked up the full basket. “I’ll set him straight.”

“I’d ask how, but you wouldn’t tell me, would you?” Philip only shook his head at Natasha’s network of information.

“I could but then it would be difficult to do my job.” She winked. “Go mediate. I can handle Clint and will take care of the Mayor.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, we need Garrett, so no accidents, please,” Philip joked. At least, he thought he was joking. Natasha nodded in agreement as she left, and Philip went off to soothe ruffled feathers and make sure the rest of the day went as well as the morning.

Unfortunately, the meeting became a major logistical problem that Philip had to tackle; he’d hoped to be back at the field for the award ceremony, but he was stuck overseeing the building of a dance floor to avoid broken and sprained ankles, then he had to talk to the food vendors about the move. Many of them elected to take Philip up on the offer of space closer to the new venue. Jessica came up with the solution for the lack of stalls; they backed wagons into loose semi-circles and used the drop gates as counters. Setting the three pages to work hanging lanterns from the trees while the squires drove poles into the ground for torches, Philip managed to create a party atmosphere before people began to wander their way.  As the day moved into the evening, shopkeepers shuttered their windows and packed away their goods. Thankful he’d gotten the cider and ale merchants up and running first, Philip watched as money began to change hands for full mugs, the alcohol creating a good mood while the food sellers got ready.

The first musicians started playing early, the sound of their voices and instruments carrying up the hill to the manor and down into town. The location turned out to be much better than the square; here there was room to fan out, people dragging benches under the eaves of trees to sit and have conversation while others gathered around the main stage and still more clustered in groups as they ate. Townspeople, members of Clint’s company, manor servants, visiting craftsmen and merchants all mingled together with laughter and raised voices shouting welcome to each other. Even Loki’s presence with his entourage of soldiers and servants didn’t dampen the spirits of a successful Faire. The Prince seemed to be sampling everything; somewhere along the way, Loki had found Andrew who was entertaining their visitor with a flow of conversation. That worried Philip until he noticed Carol and Sif within ear’s distance; Carol nodded Philip’s way to reassure him that Loki was under her eye.

“You best eat, Milord.” Richardson the Baker tapped Philip on the shoulder. Ever since his son had been injured, the man was doing everything he could to make up for his reaction. Now, he held a round of dark brown bread, top sliced off and inside hollowed out to make room for steaming stew chock full of potatoes and chunks of lamb. “Been watching you run yourself ragged today. You need this.”

Philip’s stomach rumbled at the enticing smell before he could frame the words to thank the man. “Guess I am hungry at that.” He took the dense bread and the proffered spoon. “Thank you.”

“You take the evening off and listen to the music. Damn fine job you’ve done here, and you deserve to enjoy it.” He turned and left Philip standing with the food.

“That looks good. I could eat a horse I think, but don’t tell Lucky,” Clint peered around Philip’s shoulder. “Think I could get one? Or is that the spoils of war to the conquering hero?”

“We can manage some food for you, I suppose. After all, sitting and watching others work hard is a difficult job,” Philip teased. They’d seen each other for a grand total of forty-five minutes since they left the manor this morning and that included the brief lunch in the grandstand. Garrett had done his best to make sure everyone knew of Philip’s supposed tryst; the weight of many gazes were upon them, wondering if the story was true.

“The games were highly entertaining. Next year, you have to judge some yourself. Maybe a duel swords competition.” Clint slid a hand around Philip’s waist and laid a quick kiss on the curve of Philip’s neck. 

“He needs to eat while it’s hot,” Natasha said, nudging Clint as she came up to them. “I’ll get some for us if you grab a table before they’re all gone.”

Being the Lord of the manor meant that there was always a good seat; one of the Huskey sons waved them over to a table under the eaves of a tree with brilliant red leaves, close to the music but away from the main area. Philip settled onto a bench, and Clint wedged himself in beside him, pressing their shoulders and legs together.

“There’s plenty of room,” Philip said, but he was actually liked the closeness. He hadn’t forgotten what Loki had said earlier about finding little ways to release the energy; touching Clint opened a conduit between them and the power flowed out, bit by tiny bit, in a constant trickle. A slow burn that built warmth in Philip’s chest.

“Indeed there is, but then I wouldn’t get to do this.” Clint agreed. He ran a hand along Philip’s leg and came to rest on his knee.

Natasha arrived with Bruce in tow and set down bread bowls for them, followed by William with a pitcher of mulled wine and goblets. The other two boys were hanging back, eager to get to the dessert booths; William ran off immediately to join them. Philip was glad to see the clerk looking much more rested and how eagerly Bruce tucked into his meal. The stew was thick and hearty, leaving a warm trail in Philip’s chest as he spooned up bites; the bread was nutty, easy to rip off and dip into the broth. As they ate, people dropped by the table, first the Frasiers, then the McCarters and the Huskeys. The Mayor stopped but Clint was deep in a discussion about a new archery range and Philip was talking about winter’s storage needs, so Natasha handled him by turning the topic to marriageable daughters right in front of two single Huskeys and a couple of McCarter sons. That was enough of a distraction to keep the Mayor happily contemplating the possibilities.

The second group of musicians took the stage, two fiddle players with a lead singer, a mandolin, back up guitars, and a handheld set of drums. They launched into “The Raggle Taggle Gypsy,” a crowd pleaser with a fast pace and fun lyrics about a wandering wife who runs away with her gypsy lover. More than a few quick peeks were thrown their way during the song but then toes tapped, people started clapping in time, and the mood shifted from food to a party.  “Change in Your Demeanor” followed, and the dancing broke out spontaneously. Watching the couples spin around the floor, Philip was glad they’d given this local band a prime spot; he’d bet they’d be making a name for themselves within a year.

When they started an instrumental version of the old legend “Tam Lin,” Clint laughed and pulled Philip to his feet. He tried to protest that he didn’t dance, but Clint just shook his head and said “Lord’s prerogative.”

The beat was fast then slowed, building again and again, just like the ebb of power inside Philip. Each time their bodies came into contact as they spun through the quick steps, Philip could feel little jolts of electricity jump from skin to skin. Clint was humming along, as happy as Philip had ever seen him, and  they stayed for the next number, “Whiskey in a Jar” a  fair choice considering Richard McCarter had broken out the good stuff and was sharing the single malt around the table.

After a glass of the peaty amber liquid, Clint danced with Natasha, and Philip took a turn with Jessica, switching partners until he’d danced with all of the Thanes before Clint claimed him again. At one point, he saw Clint with Lady Sif, and they both danced with Melinda who had more energy than all of them put together.

Loki remained seated although he looked like he was enjoying the music. When the band segued into the Dublin Reels, Philip steeled himself and asked the Prince if he’d like to dance. Loki turned him down with a wave and a laugh, making his preference for the amber liquid in his glass plain. Philip took another finger of scotch, sat down to drink it, and a slice of pie appeared in front of him. As if summoned by Rachel’s pie crust, Clint joined him for his own piece, breathless and sweaty from the exertion. Lust stirred, buoyed by the warmth of drink and shared energy, and Philip stroked Clint’s arm absently as the music slowed, the group finishing their set with a lonesome ballad of lost love and a black veil. Maybe it was the lower inhibitions or the whiskey, but Philip knew this need for Clint would be there regardless.

All he could focus on was the bit of apple filling clinging to the corner of Clint’s mouth. Noticing, Clint turned and cocked his head, his eyes darkening with a matching heat. Running the tip of his tongue around his lips, he caught the bit and licked it clean until Philip had to kiss him. Whiskey and apples, cinnamon and the sweet taste of sugar, Clint tasted a little like fall and a lot like home. Philip ignored the sounds around them and heard only the soft intake of breath as Clint returned the kiss. As he pulled back, Philip knew he could sink into those blue-green eyes and never want to leave.

“We could slip away,” he said without thinking. “Walk along the creek and find a nice dark bower in the trees.”

“Yes,” Clint agreed. “And everyone will know what we’re doing. I thought that bothered you.”

“I’m getting used to the idea,” Philip admitted. “Besides, I’ve seen a fair number of couples already sneak away. Another good thing about this location; we might have a spat of babies born come early summer.”

“Good evening.” The woman who took the stage had long red hair and a soft voice that carried across the field. Everyone hushed as she spoke. “We’ve a good set ready for you tonight and our first number is in honor of the new Lords of the Holding. May they have long and healthy life together with much love and laughter.”

“There goes that idea,” Clint muttered as a roar of approval went up and the crowd turned their way. The song was of lovers meeting at night, wrapped in each other. She sang the chorus and smiled their way.

Oh night thou was my guide Of night more loving than the rising sun Oh night that joined the lover To the beloved one Transforming each of them into the other

When McKennitt moved into the familiar tale of “The Bonny Swans,” Melinda clapped the loudest at her favorite, and Philip joined the crowd as they sang along with refrain, “with a hey, ho, a bonny o.”

As the music surrounded them, Philip settled his back against the tree trunk; someone had thoughtfully pulled the bench closer. Clint leaned against him, and Philip circled his arms around Clint’s waist, the weight of Clint’s head on his shoulder welcome and grounding. Natasha rolled her eyes when she saw they were holding hands; Bruce smiled. Jessica was just behind Carol, resting her feet on the bench next to the blonde. Sif was nearby, and even Loki seemed entranced by the beautiful melodies being woven on the stage. There was something about the moment – truly at ease – and Philip felt the notes shifting, dropping along his skin like rain, creating a power of their own that mixed with his and Clint’s. He could hear them in his head, a melodic line that danced with electricity but didn’t make him feel full or dangerous. No, this was like drawing power from all around him, bringing McKennitt’s tune into their own song and weaving them together into a seamless whole.

McKennitt had just begun “Marco Polo” when Philip felt a tap on his shoulder. Annemarie motioned for his attention and tugged at Clint’s shirt to alert him as well. As silently as possible, they rose and skirted around the table. “We need you in the stables,” the chatelaine said once they were far enough out of earshot. She spoke quickly, checking to be sure they weren’t overheard. “You’ll need Clerk Banner. I’ll get him and the others as quietly as I can.”

They got to the doors of the stable in a short time, the town virtually deserted, everyone at the party. Standing just inside the door was Rodriguez, who was on guard for the evening; she motioned them into the half-finished grooms’ area as soon. Slumped on one of the old wooden bedsteads, feet on the floor and his shoulders resting against the wall, was Samuel Wilson.

“Sam?” Philip sat down next to him; even that small motion made the other man moan in pain. Close up, his dark skin was washed out, streaks of dirt mixed with what looked like dried blood on his cheeks and forehead. He was cradling an arm across his stomach and Philip could see brighter red seeping between his fingers. “What happened?”

“Too many of them.” Sam’s voice was thready, and his breathing was short and quick. “They hit Maynard Huskey’s place and Nelly’s Crossroads. People there need help, so many wounded and dead.” He coughed, wet and full of pain. “I followed their trail; they’re headed for McCarter Hall; there’s too many of ‘em. Maybe a hundred fighters plus trained animals.” His eyelids slid shut and he shuddered.

“Bruce is on his way, just hold on,” Philip said, taking Sam’s hand and squeezing.

 Bruce came through the door, the others right behind him. He knelt down between Sam’s knees and gently coaxed Sam to move his arms. Philip’s eyes widened and his heart fell; three long gashes ran vertically across Sam’s stomach, skin and fat curled back. A semi-circle was gnawed on Sam’s side, teeth worked deep into his muscle and sinew. From the angry red of the surrounding skin, Philip knew an infection had already set in … or something worse.

“Carol, get Richard McCarter and Leo Huskey … hell, we’ll need all the Lairds if we’re going to mount a big enough force to make a difference,” Clint said. “Try not to start a panic. Bring them to the main hall.”

She left immediately. Bruce looked at Philip, the bad news written on his face. “We need to apply pressure …” he began, looking around. Philip jumped up and grabbed a clean horse blanket stowed in the corner, folding it over and holding it against Sam’s stomach, pressing down. “I need hot water, boiled then cooled, and some whiskey. My kit is in my room.”

“I’ve got it,” Annemarie said from the doorway. She had the healer’s kit under her arm, a bucket of steaming water and a basket of clean rags. “Still plenty of cobwebs in the old apothecary. I’ll get some to help close the wounds.” She bustled back out.

“She’s amazing,” Natasha said and Philip would have called her on the irony of that statement, but he could feel Sam’s insides moving beneath his hands. The man’s face was ashen, his life slipping away in this room full of people. 

“Tell us about them, Sam,” Clint urged, trying to keep Sam focused on the here and now.  “Militia? Bandits? Soldiers?”

“Oh, gods,” Sam whispered. “Those plus farmers and knights, all with glowing blue eyes, but that’s not the worst.” Trying to sit up, Sam sucked in a breath and almost cried out.

“Stay still,” Bruce ordered. Dark spots were growing on the blanket as Sam convulsed once, then again before he calmed.

 “Doesn’t matter,” Sam shook his head. “Listen to me. They weren’t alive, do you understand? Some still looked human, recently dead; you could see the wounds that killed them. Others were older, barely any skin left, just bones and tatters of clothes. Undead.”

No one bothered to gainsay Sam’s declaration; revenants and other myths no longer seemed impossible. Still, they all needed a moment for the facts to sink in; Clint was the first to speak. “Jessica, the bodies of the bandits. Buried or burned?”

“Burned, but it won’t hurt to check,” she said.

“Salt the ground where the bones are,” Bruce asked without turning his head as she went to leave, still intently mixing herbs for a poultice. “Just to be sure.”

 “What did this to you? Talk to me. It will help you focus.” Clint leaned over Sam. A stirring of energy as Bruce took the bottle of whiskey that appeared next to him – Annemarie again – and nodded to Philip to pull the bloody blanket away. As soon as the wounds were visible, Bruce poured a liberal amount of the alcohol over them. Sam nearly came off the bed, biting back a scream into an aborted cry. With a damp cloth, Bruce began gently cleaning off the dirt and blood. Clint tapped his fingers on the back of Philip’s hand; he too was feeling the echoes of Bruce’s energy as it pulsed, as if they were now attuned to the clerk’s power. It wasn’t like Philip’s awareness of Clint; this connection with Bruce was fainter, more tenuous.

 “An animal I’ve never seen before … Looked like a wolf but bigger … meaner … hell you could ride one. Claws like a bear, and nasty set of teeth … gods, that hurts.” Sam was growing weaker by the minute.

“Wargs.” Lady Sif said. Philip hadn’t realized she’d entered the room. “Forgive my intrusion. When Laird McCarter left, I thought to offer my aid and I can give you information. They are creatures from the Asgardian side of the Mountains. They usually keep to the upper reaches and pose dangers only to those who enter their territory. Their fangs are poisonous. We may have some of the antidote with us since they attack travelers in the pass. If you would allow me, I would send for the Prince. He is a skilled healer.”

“Please do. We would appreciate his help.” Clint made the decision, and Philip was glad to let him do it. The last thing Philip wanted was Loki here; he didn’t trust the Prince at all. But, he might be Sam’s best hope; Bruce was clearly worried, his brow furrowed. Green rivulets appeared on Bruce’s hands, running out from under his cuffs. The energy was shifting, and Philip remembered what Loki had said about wild magic. Philip could tell the difference between the stability of Clint’s magic versus the fluctuating power coming from Bruce.  Philip tried to keep Sam calm by cradling his head with his hands, thinking of warmth as he released tiny pulses into Sam’s clammy skin.

“Phil,” Sam murmured, turning his head restlessly. “I left the wagon at the Crossroads Inn. Promise you’ll bring it back.”

“We’ll get it, don’t worry,” Phil agreed.

“You, Phil. You know.” Sam’s voice faded into a gasp as Bruce worked.

“Sif says your friend has been bitten by a warg.” Loki knelt next to Bruce and looked over Sam’s wounds. “Both claws and teeth, I see. It’s amazing he survived the initial attack. Fortunately, I have experience with these this creatures.” He rested one hand on Sam’s stomach heedless of the blood and gore and touched two fingers to the middle of Sam’s forehead.

It took every reserve Philip had to not jerk Loki’s hand away when a wave of blue crept from his fingers, turning Sam’s skin icy.  A chill washed over Philip; he’d never experienced concentrated power welded by a trained user. Confidence, that’s how Philip would characterize Loki’s signature. He watched in amazement as the edges of the wounds uncurled, came back together and began to heal. Doubt aside, Loki knew what he was doing.

“There’s something … unnatural,” Loki murmured, eyes closed as if looking inward. “Feel it? Right there. That’s why he’s still with us; they wanted him alive.”

A tension, something dark that felt sharp and jagged in Philip’s head, rose out of Sam, pulled by Loki’s spell. It stabbed into Philip’s consciousness, a smoky mist that hung suspended then darted outwards, trying to escape. With a snap of his fingers, Loki made it dissipate, releasing the power to seep away.  Sam’s eyes closed, he sighed and slumped, breathing evenly.

“He will need sleep to regain strength, but he will be fine.” Loki pushed up; standing he towered over them. “You have a problem, it seems. That spell was the work of a powerful sorcerer, one that we are familiar with.”

“It is why we have been recalled,” Sif added. “There have been attacks along the border in the mountains much like the one your friend detailed. I would be honored to aid you in this battle, Lord Barton. I could learn much about what might be a common foe.”

So much for maintaining their secrets, Philip thought. The Asgardians probably even knew about the Dugan connection and their search for a lost item, considering how good Loki was at manipulating people. The harm, it seemed, was already done, so he shrugged when Clint glanced his way.

“I’d be honored to fight alongside you, My Lady,” Clint said.

[cakeisnotpie]

Bonds of Old

Chapter 7: Shadows of Doubt

Rating: M

See the complete work here or at AO3

Loki has arrived and he's got an agenda. Clint and Philip have to work together or they'll be torn apart.

Prince Loki appeared to be the court dilettante that Natasha had warned him about; he was dressed in leather armor tailored to look like dress finery, embroidered with gold thread and jeweled clasps that would be out-of-place on any field of battle Clint had ever known. And yet, the man was charming and quite interested in the Hold; from the moment his slim leather boot had touched the ground as he slid off his horse, he’d been nothing but gracious, apologizing for his unexpected arrival and expressing his thanks for the food and drink Philip had arranged for the Prince and his retinue. Now, sitting at a table under the oak tree, he was laughing at something Richard McCarter was saying.

Maybe it was the strange events of the day that had Clint feeling so off kilter. If he stopped to think about it, he could feel the mark Philip had made tingle on his arm, and he remembered clearly the sensation of his own hand burning into Philip’s skin. All of that on top of the Faire, the exhibition, Lady Sif, and the spike of pure hatred Clint had felt when he thought Bruce was propositioning Philip. Clint liked the clerk; he had a wry sense of humor and was taking the weirdness in stride. But, for a moment, Clint had the impulse to punch the man in the face. Once he’d realized Bruce was only talking about Garrett’s attempts at matchmaking, Clint had swung right back into the state of semi-arousal he was always in when Philip was nearby.

His eyes unerringly found his husband talking to Dax, probably praising him for the food. Philip was good at that, knowing when to speak a good word and when someone needed a kick to get going. Look at Rachel. A month ago, she was a camp follower with the goal of surviving life long enough to maybe marry one of the men. Now, she was seated next to a Laird’s wife as she told a noble of the Asgardian court her plans to perfect her pie crust and open her own shop. Melinda, it seemed, had agreed to help fund the endeavor and Sif, after finishing a third tart, suggested Rachel visit Asgard to teach her recipes to the royal chefs. Philip had pushed her to take a job in the manor, and now she was starting to believe she could do more. It didn’t escape Clint that Philip was doing the same thing to him; getting Clint to take part in today’s exhibition hadn’t been a subtle thing. Still, Clint recognized the ways Philip was making him take responsibility and building him up to believe he could actually do this, be the Lord of the Manor his father never was.

In the moments of doubt that assailed Clint, usually in the middle of the night or during long, boring jobs like building walls, he wondered why he’d trusted Philip so quickly and easily. The man had slotted into Clint’s life as if he’d been destined to be by Clint’s side. Usually, Clint would question that, worry about scoundrels and con men who wanted his money, his power or his life. He’d known Natasha for six months before he let himself go to sleep in her presence; Carol was almost a year, and Jessica had only agreed to become his thane after he almost got killed rescuing her. But Philip had become something of an obsession for Clint in the blink of an eye; he thought of things at the oddest times during the day, like the goofy smile Philip made when he was talking about an old story, the way Phil’s leather pants fit snugly across the curve of his ass, and the flash of sunlight off Philip’s swords as he fought. At night, Clint curled around the lean frame and didn’t dream of blood and battle. And when Clint was inside of Philip, he didn’t think of anything at all, pleasure and contentment overwhelming all his doubts and fears. Sex with Philip was good. Very good.

“I’d ask if you were wool-gathering, Lord Barton, but I suspect you are contemplating something earthier,” Loki said. His melodic voice, rich and deep, drew Clint back from his ruminations. With an arched eyebrow, Loki followed Clint’s line of sight straight to Philip.

“The lad’s still a newlywed.” Richard McCarter’s voice boomed across the space. Philip turned and his gaze landed on Clint. “He’s distracted as any new husband should be. Haven’t even made it to the new moon yet!”

“’Tis good to see an arranged marriage working well,” the Prince said. “Although I find myself regretting the lateness of my suit. Had I known Lord Philip, I might have put up more of a fight for him.”

“Begging your pardon, your Highness,” Melinda McCarter said in her quieter voice. “But we’re very glad we have both of our Lords. After the attack two years ago, we were in an awful state and couldn’t very well help ourselves.”

“Now, woman, you know we’d have been able to get things pulled back together,” her husband protested. “McCarters take care of themselves.”

“Aye, love, I know you would. But this was the whole Holding not just our part. And you agreed with the others to ask Lord Fury for protection and aid, so don’t be puffing up your chest at me.” Melinda may have smiled at Loki, but she sent a glare full of sharp daggers at Richard. “Without Clint’s return and Philip’s arrival, I know we wouldn’t be sitting here, eating such good food and celebrating. Fury did right by us.”

“As he should,” Loki agreed. “That is the way of marriages; make the best alliances and strengthen the land.”

“That may be true, but it does my heart good to see Clint all besotted like he is. About time you had a good break, my boy,” Melinda added, aiming her last comment at him. Clint knew he was blushing right up to the roots of his hair. Besotted? Where did she get that idea?

“I thank you for the kind words.” Clint wanted to object, but thought better of it. What would it hurt for Loki to think there was more between him and Philip? “But you are the reason this Hold is thriving. The people here are strong-willed.”

“See?” Richard laughed. “You’re definitely a Frasier, boy. Far too nice for your own good. McCarters, on the other hand, know when to speak our mind and take credit for the good we’ve done.”

“I’d say Lord Barton has the right of it,” Loki laughed, his blue eyes filled with humor. “Were she free, Lady McCarter would make a wonderful Princess of Asgard. My mother would adore you.”

The Laird of the clan McCarter sputtered and his face grew red.

“Now that is the best compliment anyone’s given me in ages!” Melinda overrode whatever her husband was about to say. “You could learn from the Prince, dear.” She stood, brushed the wrinkles from her dress, and held her hand out to Richard. “Time for the play. You know I want a good seat.”

“Interesting Holders you have, Lord Barton,” Loki said after they had left. “They seem very loyal.”

For a moment, it was just Clint and Loki, and Clint felt the oddest discomfort, like a cold breeze on the back of his neck. “The McCarters have been on this land as long as my family.”

“Yes, history is an excellent way to judge a person, is it not?” Loki sipped his ale. “Take Lady Sif. I’ve known her since we were both children. Even when she’s angry with me, I know I can trust her to watch my back.”

“She is a formidable woman,” Clint agreed. He wasn’t good at word play or parsing phrases; he needed Natasha for that, but she’d been absent since Loki had ridden up the road.

“So, too, are your Thanes, I hear. One of the oddities of the Midlands to us is the reliance upon outdated notions like the frailty of women when they are so obviously the stronger sex.” Loki’s eyes found Sif where she sat with Carol and Jessica. “And yet your people accept your choice of husband without comment.”

“It doesn’t make sense, I give you that,” Clint acknowledged. “But that’s human nature. We hold contradictory ideas.” That summed up how Clint felt about Philip, he realized. He wanted him desperately but still didn’t know him.

“I assume you wish to view the evening’s entertainment,” Sif interrupted, speaking to Loki. Carol and Jessica were standing with her. “It appears they are waiting on us to begin.”

 “Thane Danvers, would you be so kind?” Loki stood and held out his arm. Clint hid his surprise, half expecting Loki to ask him. Only because he was looking directly at her did he notice the way Sif’s face changed briefly, emotion there and then gone. He recognized that look; he’d directed his own jealous glare at Philip earlier today. Loki winked at Clint; gods, but the man knew and was playing with her. 

“I’d be honored.” Carol slipped her arm through Loki’s. She had on her battle face, the gaze that had scared any number of men off the field before the fight had begun, so the smile she plastered on didn’t reach her eyes. Pre-disposed to dislike Loki, Carol was using her head of the guard status as a reason to be wary of him.

“Please tell Philip that I hope to have time to speak to him tomorrow. I would convey my congratulations … assuming he is free, of course.” Loki tilted his head in Philip’s direction and Clint’s eyes flicked that way.

Standing in the growing shadows of the oak, half-hidden from view, Philip was leaning on the branch, listening with rapt attention.  Bruce’s hand was on Philip’s forearm, his brown hair falling across his face as he finished speaking. Philip laughed, amusement sparkling in his eyes. Like a knife’s plunge, Clint felt the stab of jealousy at the base of his throat, his stomach turning over. The note he heard was not just a minor key, but a discordant jangle that set his teeth on edge.  From the corner of his eye, he caught Loki’s stare, poised and ready to pounce on any response. But Clint was a master at masking his feelings when he wanted to be. A skill born of years of practice, hiding behind a staid face was a necessity Clint had learned at an early age. If he didn’t cry or beg, his father lost interest sooner, moving on to someone who would be suitably cowed by his belligerent threats. Hope was just as bad as fear; kind words and faint praise from his father was only meant to make the fall worse. The more Clint believed the soft voice, the worse the harsh hand would fall. So he’d developed a mask that revealed nothing, and it had served him well in his mercenary years. Opponents couldn’t guess his plans, friends didn’t know his hurts, and no one saw his vulnerability but the few he trusted.

“I will make certain you speak with Philip tomorrow. He’ll wish to make time for you, I’m sure.” His tone made Carol stand straighter, the fighter in her recognizing the threat that lurked in the air. Jessica, standing behind Loki and out of his sight, cut her gaze to Philip and back to Clint with an almost imperceptible nod. “Carol, if you would, tell the performers that Philip and I will there shortly.”

“Of course,” Carol agreed. Loki’s eye’s narrowed ever so slightly, stymied by Clint’s implacable outward calm. “Shall we, your Highness?”

The Prince had little choice but to go with her; the first salvo had not achieved the desired outcome, and Clint knew there would be another more subtle feint. Shoving down the desire to curl his hands into fists and slam one into Bruce’s face, Clint waited until Loki was out of earshot, disappearing down the slope of the hill.

“He wants a reaction, you understand.” Sif’s words startled him. “It’s his way. He dissects everything until he sees how it works.  Have care; he’ll lay your secrets bare before he leaves.”

“You would warn me, Milady?” Clint wasn’t sure of her motives; she was of Asgard and a defender of the Prince.

“Consider this advice, Lord Barton. Loki will recognize what you have, whether you do or not. When Lord Philip was an abstraction, a potential mate in name only, the Prince was interested only for what the marriage could bring. Now that he has met you both?” Sif’s question was almost wistful. “He’ll want to know how he can have it too”

“If he’s after Philip, he’ll have a fight on his hands.” What Clint had felt when he’d seen Bruce and Philip together paled in comparison to the fire that flared at her suggestion. Loki would not sway Philip away from Clint. “Prince or no, he can’t have him.”

“Ah, and there’s the rub. Anyone who spends the least amount of time around you will know that truth. Even I am jealous.” She placed a hand on Clint’s shoulder, carefully telegraphing her move as she did. “Do not let anything admit impediments to your bond.”

With that, she left Clint alone, his mind whirling with the details of the conversation, and his body tense with the fast shift of emotions he was feeling.  She hadn’t said outright that Loki was going to take Philip; she’d said he would want to know how he could have someone like Philip too. Could she mean the Prince would be jealous as well?  Or was she hinting at the magic? That scared Clint the most; what if the Asgardians knew. What would they do?

“Clint? What did Sif say?” Philip’s hand radiated warmth from its touch. Standing just behind Philip, Bruce took a step back as he made eye contact with Clint; the melody in Clint’s head was still slightly off, wrong notes falling among the stronger chords.

“Loki tried to make me jealous, just like Natasha predicted.” The words were difficult to get out, but once they were spoken aloud, Clint was relieved. The chords resolved, drifting back into the comfortingly familiar song he connected with Phil.

“If I’m causing any difficulties, I’ll gladly return to my own studies,” Bruce offered. His shoulders hunched, and he tried to make himself smaller.

“No,” Philip insisted. “Clint, we need Bruce. That’s what we’ve been talking about; he can help me learn to control this … power.”

“Oh.” Clint saw the scenes with a different eye – the way the two men shared a love of learning, the amount of knowledge they’d read about magic, even Bruce with Philip earlier after the exhibition, guiding him to a seat and waiting on Clint. “Oh.”

“I might be able to help you as well, at least insofar as the two of you working together. I have some ideas, if I can find the right references again, that can stabilize the connection.” When he spoke this time, Bruce stood up straight, more confident in himself. “Like now, you’re probably feeling something off, an ache or itch or upset. Out of sync for a lack of a better word.”

“Like the hairs on the back of head are standing out,” Philip said, surprising Clint with how open he was being.

Another moment of decision, Clint realized. Did he trust Bruce? Loki had been right about that; trust was something earned over a long history together. He barely knew Philip much less this clerk. And yet … “A wrong note, the chords all jangled up.”

“Music? You hear music?” Bruce’s eyes widened. “That’s very rare. I can only think of one example in all the legends. What was his name? It will come to me, give me a moment.”

“Bruce, the players are waiting,” Philip gently reminded.

“Yes, of course. My apologies.” Bruce pulled himself back to the moment. “Touch helps, does it not? Like this.” He reached for Philip’s other hand and guided it to Clint’s hand.

For just a second, their three hands were in contact. Music exploded into Clint’s head, loud and strong, his and Philip’s song with a bass counter melody that expanded and supported the main theme. Philip gasped, the charge of his magic flowing up Clint’s arm and into his chest, purple sparks jumping between their fingers to mix with the green streaks that appeared on Bruce’s hand. Not the sickly green of their dreams, Bruce’s skin was the color of emeralds, bold and deep. With a startled exclamation, Bruce jerked away; his whole body shivering.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, head down, curled in on himself. “I didn’t predict this reaction.” He started to flee but Clint grabbed his arm; the flesh was shifting under Clint’s hand, muscles straining and tensing. With a quick twist, Bruce broke the hold.

“Are you ill? What do you need?” Philip asked. “Let us help you.”

“I need … time … I will … be well … in the … morning … just leave me be. I need to  … expend this energy. You understand.” He disappeared into the darkness of the oncoming evening, running away from the festivities.

“We should do something,” Clint said, starting after the clerk. They were the cause of his distress; their magics had somehow infected the other man.

“I think we should let him alone. He has much to tell us yet; earlier, I was reminded he prefers to live a solitary life. There must be a reason for it.” Philip counseled. Still, doing nothing didn’t sit well with Clint, even if it was the right thing. “We need to go before we raise suspicions.”

“Melinda will assume we’re busy with something more pleasant,” Clint told him. “The holders believe we are on our honeymoon.”

“That kiss didn’t do anything to disabuse them of the notion.” Philip’s face grew softer as he remembered.

“Indeed.” Clint started towards the field, absently tugging on Philip’s hand, keeping their fingers entwined. It was becoming a habit, this constant contact; the feel of skin on skin buoyed Clint’s mood.

“Maybe we should play along,” Philip suggested as they worked their way down the incline, staying on the trail to avoid stepping in a hole. The sun had gone down, all but a thin ribbon red quickly fading on the western horizon. Casting long shadows, the mountains hovered, a dark presence to the North. “Be angry with each other and give him the opening he’s looking for. Maybe he’ll reveal what he wants.”

“Natasha is better at that than I am.” Clint could see the point Philip was making. Much as he didn’t like the idea, it had merit. “But I think I’ve had enough practice today to make it work.”

When Philip’s hand slipped away, the music muted, and the evening seemed to cool. The torches lit circled the stage, flames lighting the benches and chairs in the first few rows. Two seats were left open for them, front and center. Townspeople and holders mixed together, families with their children on the ground and some budding couples towards the back where brushes of fingers could go unnoticed. Carol and Jessica were seated with Sif on Loki’s left; at the Prince’s right, Mayor Garrett was talking with animated gestures, pointing out various people as he talked. With an unspoken agreement, Clint turned his back on Philip and made his way towards his seat, not waiting to see if Philip followed. Loki’s eyes tracked them as they moved, cataloguing the way Clint shuttered his face and smiled for everyone but Philip. Carol frowned and nudged Jessica; further back in the audience, Clint saw Natasha raise her eyebrow. He coughed once, just cleared his throat with his hand over his mouth, and she went back to her conversation, message received.  A few more discrete coughs, and Carol and Jessica understood as well.

Holding his body tense, Clint took his place, Philip sitting down next to him. When he got angry, Clint didn’t get loud or abusive; he’d seen the effects of losing control, flying fists and hastily hidden bruises. No, Clint grew distant, settling into a stillness that could be unnerving. He went there now, speaking to the Troop, nodding to Loki as he gave the go ahead to begin while ignoring Philip completely. It was easy enough once the Players began their first offering, a light-hearted comedy about an elderly carpenter, his voluptuous younger wife, and the lusty student renter in their home. A perfect choice to go with the full stomachs and casks of ale that had been consumed; as the short tale wound to its hilarious conclusion with red hot pokers, bare asses, and screams of “Fire!”, Clint wanted to relax and laugh along with everyone else, but he had to work to not lean into Philip’s warmth and enjoy this, the celebration of a harvest that was more than bountiful. The whole Hold was coming back to life despite the push of winter coming on; the roar of mirth that followed the player dressed as the old husband was chased off the stage spoke volumes about the people’s morale.

A second short play followed the first, a romance of two knights vying for a beautiful maiden’s love; Clint found it a little more tedious, never one for the professions of undying affection even when the young woman playing Emily camped it up, tittering behind her fan at the over-the-top deeds of strength presented to her. The audience found it highly entertaining; Clint saw Leo Huskey clapping enthusiastically as the scene ended.

“And for the main attraction, by special request, we present to you a tale rife with adventure, intrigue, romance, and action galore! Sword fights and love! Villains and heroes! Damsels in distress! Ladies and gentlemen, sit back and prepare for the excitement that is The Archer and the Pirate!”

Philip stiffened and sucked in a quick breath; the magic stirred, and Clint felt it jump between them, energy arcing from their hands where they rested close to each other. He’d forgotten Lady Sif’s conversation earlier about those damnable stories and how Philip had been aware of them. His husband knew, had probably known before the marriage.  That was why Fury agreed to the arrangement -- to get the Archer and the Widow and the Captain and the Spider. He didn’t have to fake his discomfort as he began to wonder if Philip was drawn to him, Clint Barton, or to the character of those exaggerations?

“It wasn’t me,” Philip whispered; the lightest brush of fingers against Clint’s knuckles set off a wave of music that was so loud Clint was sure others must have heard it. He resisted the urge to look at Philip, staring at the stage as an actor swung down from the top of the wagon, tight black pants and billowy white shirt half-unlaced. An impractical costume for an archer, some logical part of Clint’s brain noted, the material sure to get caught in the string. Yet, from the appreciative sounds from the ladies, it was quite affective.

“You knew.” Clint was well-versed in hiding his mouth when he spoke; his lip-reading skills had gotten a lot of practice when he’d been deafened for a short while by a canon that exploded too early. On stage, swords clashed in a carefully choreographed dance, clicking almost in rhythm with the tune circling under his skin. Red scarves served as blood when the hero slashed the first of what would be many and varied foes.

“This is my favorite.” Philip shifted his body and bumped his knee into Clint’s leg. It took a second for Clint to remember Philip’s fantasy about a captured pirate and a navy captain? In the story, it was the Archer in chains on a pirate ship, but Clint could see the parallels. That should annoy him; he hated the reputation and all the overwrought emotion that went along with being turned into a legend by bards. But his reaction was the opposite. He remembered Phil’s skin under his fingers and the way Phil clenched around him, and his cock stirred at the very idea Philip had been thinking of him for years. Torn between doubt and desire, Clint tried to let the play distract him, but Philip was too close for Clint to clear his mind. Wanting to touch, Clint gripped the edge of the bench to give his fingers something to do. 

When the scene arrived, the Archer with fake manacles on his wrists and chained to a pole, the vibrations from Philip grew in intensity and echoed through Clint. The pirate captain was played with panache by a rather tall actor with a shock of dark hair tied with a colorful swath of silk; he spouted the far too-dramatic speech with an island accent close enough to be real. Every time Clint heard this part, he always wanted to laugh; in the true story, the captain turned out to be a poker player who took Clint for a hefty amount of silver.  But now he watched through Philip’s eyes, and the dialogue was layered with innuendo, the usual threats sounding more like propositions. Suddenly warm despite the fall evening, Clint tried to contain the coil of energy that was tightening in his chest

Philip broke first; he turned his head, eyes dark shadows in the torchlight, and leaned forward a little to give the Prince a clear view. “I’m sorry,” he murmured then he moved his hand over Clint’s.  Lust, rueful regret, and a bit of embarrassment all clashed together. Clint should pull away, continue the ruse, but breaking the chord that was ringing in his head was harder than he thought. He wanted to fall into that easy comfort. Instead, he settled for a curt nod and a hand squeeze.

“Son-of-a bitch gets the best lines,” Clint mock complained as the pirate swirled his long coat with a flourish onstage. From the corner of his eye, he could see Loki chatting with Garrett, his attention flitting from the stage to the Mayor and then over to Clint. He tilted his head in the smallest of nod towards Clint.

Three more times, Philip’s interest spiked; Clint filed away the specific scenes for later. Grounding through shifting touches – knees, hands, even elbows at one point – they kept the energy from discharging as Philip reacted to the play. Then the players were taking their bows to thunderous applause, and the McCarters called for more ale, ready to drink the night away. Clint wanted to escape the center of attention for the quiet of the Manor, but Mayor Garrett waylaid him before he got more than a few steps from his seat. Philip had gone a different direction; Clint saw him duck away, joining Melinda and Rachel in the group headed back to the barrels. At least one of them had managed to avoid an extended interview.

“Clint! What a delightful evening. Philip stood our town in the highest regard.” The Mayor went to loop his arm through Clint’s, but Clint stepped to the side, hiding his move as a turn towards Loki and Sif who were approaching. “Come. Let’s have an ale together to celebrate the return of prosperity.”

“You’re right. Lord Philip has done an excellent job,” Clint agreed. He was about to launch into an excuse, claiming to be tired, but Loki beat him to it.

“Actually, I was hoping to impose upon Lord Barton further, if he’ll let me. I find I am very tired from my journey and quite full from the exceptional dinner; would you escort us back to our tents? We brought the messenger pouch with us as we came. You probably wish to have it.” Loki held out his elbow and Clint could find no way to turn down the request without dishonoring the Prince in front of the gathered people.

“Of course, your Highness.” Clint looped his arm around Loki’s loosely and gestured with his hand. “I would be delighted.”

The Mayor looked crestfallen, but only for a moment. “Sleep well, Prince. Tomorrow will be a fine day.”

Leading Loki away, Clint moved them out of the circle of bright light and into the shadows of the surrounding land. The location of the tents was not far, but enough of a journey for a conversation, one Clint was determined not to start. Let the Prince make the first move.

“I admit to not being entirely truthful,” Loki began. Clint tilted his head and looked up at the taller man. “I am not all that tired, but I wished a word with you in relative private. Your good Mayor is certainly a talker.”

“Yes, that about sums Garrett up,” Clint cautiously agreed.

“I must apologize if I caused any trouble earlier,” Loki said. “With you and Philip. Things seemed tense.”

“’Tis nothing, truly.” Clint brushed off Loki’s concern. “As you know, ours is a new marriage. We are still learning each other’s ways. Just a misunderstanding.”

“Ah, good!” Loki seemed truly glad. “There seems to be such a palpable affinity between you that is seldom seen in these days.” Clint didn’t have an answer for that, so he kept silent, watching the ground as he walked. He doubted Loki was finished. “In fact, I can’t remember the last time I saw such compatibility in a marriage. Certainly not my parents whose arguments shake the very foundations of the castle. My father is very good at issuing orders that my Mother refuses to obey. Sif, do you know of any? You are much more attuned to happiness than I am.”

“I know not what you would consider a happy marriage. The King and Queen are powerful in their own rights and have many children. That could be considered compatible,” was Sif’s diplomatic answer. The practiced ease with which she spoke told Clint this was not the first time the two had engaged in this type of verbal sparring.

“Ah, but you do so love a good romance. Like the play tonight with the two gallant knights,” Loki teased. For the first time, Clint saw a softening in the Prince’s face as his eyes found Sif in the darkness. “Or even better yet, two warriors who fall in love as they perform great feats of strength and cunning, that one about the woman … what is her name … oh, yes, Britomart.”

“You know I do. But those are fiction, my Prince. Unions in real life are seldom as dramatic or simple.”

“And you, Clint … may I call you Clint? … surely you know how unusual you are? The Archer and the Steward brought together by the vagaries of fate? Such a tale that would make!” Loki said. Clint wasn’t sure if he was teasing or making a subtle stab at them; most likely, his purpose was both.

“A tale of repairing roofs and small Harvest festivals? Hardly exciting enough to keep anyone awake.” Clint intentionally didn’t mention the use of that silly name.

They came to a stop in front of a large silk tent, green and gold; another tent just behind was almost as large, then three mid-sized and two small ones made up the rest of the encampment. A young man stepped through the flap and bowed low. “Your bath is prepared, your Highness, as is yours Lady Sif.”

“Thank you, Bernerd,” Sif replied. “Please bring the pouch for Lord Barton.” The servant ducked in and was back in just moments, passing the mail over to Clint. 

“I think you do yourself a disservice,” Loki said. “A fight with mythical creatures and a bandit attack? All the story is lacking is a dark villain and a moment of great sacrifice.”

Loki slipped his arm free from Clint’s; instead he rested his hand on Clint’s bicep, just above the spot where Philip had marked him. A shiver of cold flowed from the spot, a chill that rose to Clint’s shoulders then his neck and then the base of his skull. Like someone dragging their fingers over the strings of a lute without any tune, a shower of notes clashed in Clint’s head, and he recognized it as magic, a different kind entirely from either his own or Philip’s. This magic wanted to change Clint, overtake his own melody and replace it with another.  If he tried, he could hear snatches of phrases, high and distant, like the wind whipping across the mountains and bringing a winter snow. Icy tendrils curled towards his hand only to be met by a flare of heat from Philip’s mark, burning away the cold.

“A couple of large animals and a few hungry thieves, that’s all it was.” It took all his focus to not react; he could feel the static between his fingertips, but he held it in. “Although I thank you for the compliment.”

“We shall agree to disagree on that point.” Loki removed his hand and immediately Clint’s body temperature rose. “Until the morning then. I hear I must try a pasty … I believe that’s what your Mayor called it.”

“Good night, your Highness.” Clint bowed his head for what he hoped was the last time tonight and waited until Loki had entered the tent. Sif smiled at him, but didn’t speak as she went to the second tent. Alone, Clint headed back to the manor, mulling over the evening’s events. So Loki knew of the two attacks, but he had not mentioned the search. That, Clint suspected, Loki was reserving for tomorrow’s interrogations. Death by a thousand tiny cuts, as an old friend of Clint’s used to say. Loki was going to keep working on both Clint and Philip to see how much they’d bleed. Clint wished he knew exactly why and what Loki hoped to accomplish, but that was beyond him in his tired state. Then there was Bruce. New revelations about him were unsettling. For such a small Hold, there were certainly more than a fair number of people who knew about and had some kind of magic.

Entering through the kitchen door, Clint found Dax in the quiet room, setting out ingredients for the morning, leaving pork to marinate in the ice box. The dark-skinned man scowled Clint’s way as he shut the wooden door and locked it closed, but he didn’t say a word.  Of course, others were there and had seen Clint’s behavior; in their eyes, Clint had been short with Philip and then walked off arm and arm with Loki.

“Good night,” Clint said, casual and easy.

“For some,” Dax replied.

He should have known there’d be more; waiting in the hallway, Annamarie had her hands on her hips, a fire in her eyes that was familiar to Clint. A talking to, that’s what she called the little speeches she’d given even as a young girl.

“Philip’s in the study, working. You need to hie your ass that way and apologize for being a simpleton.” She bit off each word, anger laced through them. “You can pretend to be upset all you like for the royal, but he doesn’t have some hidden agenda other than to make this place right for us.”

“Good Lord, woman, don’t you ever sleep? I take it back. You’re not scary. You’re psychic or something.” How did she know what he had just been thinking? A sneaking suspicion rose in his head … did everyone here have some sort of abilities?

“I just know you, Clint Barton. You think everyone’s out to hurt you or those you care about. I was there, remember? Not everyone is your father or your brother.” She didn’t waiver when she said it, walking right into the topic Clint refused to discuss with anyone else. “Philip is a good man; go make him feel like he’s part of this family and not some interloper you’re having sex with.”

“One day you’re going to go too far,” Clint warned her even though he knew she never really would. Experience gave her the right to speak of Clint’s past. She was right; she had been part of it all. “And, yes, I’m going to talk to him.”

“Clint.” She dropped her hands and her voice to a quiet murmur. “For what it’s worth, I trust Philip. Just like I trust you.”

He needed to hear that, especially from her. She’d tried to talk him out of leaving that night so long ago, had argued there were other options beside running away. When that didn’t work, she’d said she would come with him, a generous offer when Clint knew she loved her family and really didn’t want to go. Then her father had died in a riding accident and her mother during the fighting, and Clint wasn’t here to help her or to fight alongside those who defended the manor and town. For Annamarie to trust him meant he might just have a chance at truly being Lord Barton after all. Assuming he didn’t make too many mistakes.

The door to the study was cracked; Clint pushed it open to see Philip, head bent, hair falling over his eyes, flipping through an old book under the light of a single oil lamp. He was so intent on what he was reading that he didn’t notice Clint in the doorway. The stillness was almost complete, just the occasional pop from the slowly dying fire and the drag of vellum across Philip’s sleeve as he turned a page. Leaning against the jamb, Clint watched the play of light in the brown locks, the way Philip crinkled his brow when he became intent on a passage, and the motion of Phil’s fingers running absently along the edge of the paper. For once, there was no rush of music or rising energy; this was entirely different, a quiet calm where his brain settled, letting go of all the doubts and might haves, should haves, need tos that cluttered his thoughts. He just was, nothing more. Relaxing into the moment, he felt lighter, his chest not as tight, and his breathing slowed. Even the manor was hushed, a state usually reserved for the dark hours before dawn; everyone was either abed or out drinking. Time passed and Clint lost count of the seconds slipping away. Philip’s concentration was total; Clint could have spoken but that would break the spell.

Eyes narrowing, Philip bent further and ran his finger along a line of print for a second time; his lips moved slightly as if he was parsing every phrase. “That makes no sense,” he said to himself.

“Maybe a second opinion would help?” Clint spoke softly, but Philip didn’t startle as expected.

“I wondered when you were going to say something.” He looked up with a smile. “Come look at this. After what happened with Bruce today, I remembered a passage I’d read about symbiotic magic. This isn’t the one I was thinking of, but it’s still interesting, assuming I’m reading it right.”

Clint crossed to the desk and leaned over Philip’s shoulder, balancing his weight with his hand on the edge. He was close enough to exhale and stir Philip’s hair as he tried to decipher the spidery script on the page.

… when than the dayes of tribulation came doune from the Northe, Lorde and Thane withedrew power to share amoungst themselves, weake to stronge, swyrd to wyrd. In tyme, alle were more, magyck makeing courage deepe within the walls of the darke cavern of sorrows.

“Sharing power?” Clint asked, only half-sure of the translation. “What does seward to weird mean? And the dark cave of sorrows?”

“That’s sword to word. The text is talking about sharing magical power to weak, strong, fighters, and scribes. I have no idea about the cave of sorrows. But the idea of drawing power from other magics? That’s a possible answer for what’s happening to us and with Bruce.” Philip flipped the page. “Too bad it’s just a fragment from an older story by a writer called Osswhed. I need to go through the books in the workshop and see if I can find more.”

“In the morning. We have a long day tomorrow and Loki specifically asked for some private conversation with you, so you’ll need your rest.” Clint reached out and took Philip’s hands in his. Just the mention of the Prince’s name stiffened Philip’s spine; they’d both forgotten for a while the trouble camped out literally on their doorstep.  Clearly, Philip wanted to ask what Clint had talked about with Loki, but he rose instead, bumping Clint back as he stepped around the desk.

“I could use some sleep. I need to be up before first light to help Annamarie. She’s making pasties for virtually the whole town, and Sam should be back late tonight, according to Luke. We should see what he learned on his swing north.” Neatly reshelving the book in its spot, Philip hesitated at the doorway. “Are you coming as well?”

It was an opening, enough for Clint to know that Philip wasn’t angry as much as he was worried. “Yes, I am. I have a feeling I’m going to need to be rested and ready tomorrow. Loki’s hard enough to fathom when I’m at my best.”

The trip to their room was uneventful; they saw no one else but William who was slumped in a chair outside the Main Hall, the unlucky page who had to stay available until everyone had retired for the night. A fresh pitcher of water, clean hand towels and two still warm mugs of hot chocolate waited on the table, courtesy of Annamarie.

“That woman has eyes in the back of her head,” Clint muttered.

“You do know she’s a psychic?” Philip asked. “Not mind reading, but more like pattern seeing. She can predict what people are going to do based upon their pattern of actions. Puts her in the right place at the right time to be of use. Very handy for a chatelaine. The Head of Chambers for the Queen has the same gift, although not as strongly as Annamarie.”

Stopping in place, Clint stared at Philip. “Is everyone around here some kind of mage?” His voice was plaintive, and he winced slightly at the sound.

“Gifts are not unusual, but it’s rare how many people here have very strong ones. Not magic, Clint, but abilities beyond the norm. Annamarie’s foresight isn’t unheard of just not to that extent.  Carol’s strength and leadership, Jessica’s empathy and flexibility, even Natasha’s subterfuge and reflexes – all of these are known in small doses but not the level and combinations they have. Only you and I can technically be considered magic users, and yours is very targeted, so much so as to seem a skill.” Philip explained; he picked up a mug and handed it to Clint before taking up his own.

“Targeted? A good pun.” Clint sipped the thick liquid; it was sweet and good and just the right temperature. A chill was still in his bones; he walked to the fireplace to warm up. “And you think perhaps this is because of … what did you call it? Not sharing, but something else.”

“Symbiotic. When two things are closely related and rely upon each other. Or in this case, more than two.” He shook his head. “But it’s unheard of in any text I’ve ever consulted. In all the legends, magic is individual. Lords had a mage in their retinue, but the other Thanes were skilled with strong gifts. Magic was unique and rare. Even in the stories of the Bonded, only one would be a mage, if either were at all. Most had only the magic of their union.”

“Unique. So magic can take any form? Perhaps cold like ice?” Clint asked.

“Yes. There was a famous sorcerer, the Trickster, whose spells felt like ….” Philip stared at him. “Loki? He touched you?”

“After I escorted him back, he put his hand on my arm and I felt the cold crawl all over. I think he tried something, but your mark burned hot and drove the ice back.” Clint shivered just thinking about it.

“My mark? My mark.” Philip’s eyes went wide, and he stumbled back a step before sitting down heavily in the chair. Leaving his mug on the table, he rubbed his temples with both hands. “My mark. Your mark. Gods in the heavens.”

“Phil,” Clint asked. “What?”

“The claiming. Using magic to lay a claim to someone or something. It’s in all the stories; sorcerers do it to make minions obey them. Mages can use it to offer protection. Like an oath or promise but often described like a branding.” Philip was agitated, closing his eyes then opening them again as he tried to explain. “If Loki tried to work some magic on you, and my mark repelled him, he’ll know it. Either he’ll think you’re a mage or that someone else is. Fuck.”

Clint had never heard Philip utter a curse word the whole time he’d known him; this was the first. “When you say claiming, you mean like saying I own you or that you’re mine, no one else’s?”

That loaded question fell into the room; Philip’s hand clenched on the arms of the chair and power flared to life. “You heard it. Tonight. When you kissed me. After all, you were laying claim in front of everyone.”

“At the practice field, you were the first. It’s what you wanted, to have the Archer all for you own. Is that why you came here?” As soon as he asked the question, Clint wanted to take it back, to bury the neediness that echoed in the phrase.

“No.” Philip answer came quickly then he paused, looked hard at Clint, and sighed. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I swear that I knew nothing of this marriage until the day Nick came home and told me about Loki’s proposal and his counterplan to create an alliance with you.”

“Fury wanted this, so you wanted it.” A bald statement that Philip couldn’t deny.

“I did what my Lord commanded, yes. And he told me he suspected who you are.” Philip rose from the chair. “But wanting the Archer? That was all me. I’m the one who lay awake at night using those stories to help me satisfy my solitary desires.”

“Solitary desires?” Clint couldn’t believe that. “With some hero from an embellished tale for your imagination? Gods, Philip, I’m not sure which is worse. That you neglected to tell me you already knew my secrets or that you came here to find your fantasy man.”

“I know the difference between fantasy and real life, Clint. Those are just stories, damn it, not the truth,” Philip shot back. “And, yes, I worried before I arrived that my attraction to the fictional character would affect our relationship. But now I know you, and I can safely say that I much prefer you to the Archer.”

“Well, that’s good because I’m what you’re stuck with.” Clint knew that Philip’s words should reassure him, but he still didn’t believe it. Finishing his drink, Clint sat the mug down and started unbuttoning his new vest, the one Philip had gotten him that looked so good. Clint was confused; Loki’s insinuations about trust weren’t all that far off the mark. “You can report back to Fury that I’m going to do whatever I need to in order to protect my people. You don’t have to watch me to make sure.”

“You think that I’m here to watch you?” Philip sounded hurt. “I’m not Fury’s thane anymore, not since the minute I signed that contract. I’m your husband and these are my people too. Everything I’ve done has been with their good in mind. Whatever Loki said to you, Clint, this is what he wants, to drive a wedge between us.”

“I know.” He did. He understood Loki more than he understood his own husband. Loki had an agenda; he wanted something from them. Information, revenge, or just to cause trouble, Loki had one goal in mind. The problem was Clint didn’t know what Philip’s agenda was. “Honestly, I do. It’s just that I’m not a trusting person. And my life has turned upside down far too fast for comfort.”

Philip nodded in response, accepting Clint’s words as the last ones on the subject. Really, there was no argument; they both knew a month was not enough time to say beyond any doubt that they understood each other. So Clint tugged off his boots and prepared for bed in silence as Philip did the same. Crawling under the covers, Clint wondered if he was making a mistake that would cost him later. He hadn’t know how much he desired someone to share his life with, someone who would work beside him, someone he wanted in his bed. His pattern, it seemed, was to have a glimpse at how good things could be just before he did something to destroy it.

The bed sagged, rushes crackling as Philip sat down, blew out the light, and laid back. Careful to not touch, he rolled over, facing away from Clint and stilled. But Clint couldn’t get comfortable; as if he had an invisible itch, he rolled one way, then the other, shifting his legs, plumping up his pillow all in an effort to get to sleep. He ended up on his back, staring at the ceiling, frustrated.

Philip rolled onto his back and hooked an ankle around Clint’s, tangling their legs together. And, just like that, Clint relaxed, his muscles loosening and his brain slowing its endless recriminations. Turning on his side to face Philip, Clint rested a hand on Philip’s stomach; the rise and fall soothed the last of Clint’s anxieties. When Philip slipped his arm under Clint and drew him in, Clint went easily, burying his face into the curve of Philip’s neck, releasing the last pent up breath he was holding and drifting off to sleep.

… the cold was chasing him as he ran, walls of the cave collapsing around him, green cascading down and pooling at his feet. Philip was across the square, in Bruce’s arms, dancing and laughing as the men with glowing blue eyes blocked Clint’s way. He could hear the clang of steel against steel, the sounds of battle echoing in the dark; Philip’s scream rang out and Clint stumbled, right into a pair of hands that caught him, pulling him up.

“I have need of you,” Loki said, his brilliant blue eyes burning into Clint’s consciousness as the ice formed in his veins, freeze him in place and locking him in a frigid prison. “For you, he will do anything.”

[cakeisnotpie]

Bonds of Old

Chapter 7: Marking Territory

Rating M.

See the full story here or at AO3.

It's the Fall Faire and Clint's unhappy to be the center of attention, but Philip is learning that everyone knows his secret. A visitor brings news.

 Click here for the chapter. For some strange reason, I can't cut and paste it here. Sorry!

[cakeisnotpie]

Bonds of Old

Chapter 4: Itches and Dreams

Rated: M

See the whole story here or at AO3

“Dax is back in his element,” Natasha said from her place on Clint’s right. She always sat on his right to free his dominant left hand in case of an attack, covering his weaker side. “All we need is some pita bread and it’s like being back in the islands.”

“I’ve never been that far south,” Philip said from Clint’s right, slicing into his portion. “I’ve read about the outer islands, but nothing speaks about the delicious food.”

“The food in Juraz is so hot, only milk will cool your mouth,” Samuel offered from his place on the other side of Philip. “Ghost chilies, tiny little red peppers, they use. Saw someone rub his eyes after touching one. He cried for two days.”

“Dax asked for some of those. Thanks for the warning.” Philip was smiling at Samuel, open and friendly, clearly at ease; his blue-green eyes were warm as he looked at the other man, and a little spark ignited in Clint’s brain. After they’d cleaned up earlier, Clint had gone back to talk to Carol about guard schedules, leaving Philip in the study with a stack of red ledgers and a long list of messages to pen. When Clint came down for dinner, feeling quite content, almost like he was beginning to get his first clue on this new life, he’d been surprised to see Samuel and Luke. Banner had been welcome; the man a quiet presence despite the fact Clint should be embarrassed around him; there was something about the clerk that made him fade into the woodwork and go unnoticed. The others had been nothing but polite and respectful; Clint quickly realized that Samuel was one of Natasha’s informants, and Luke was the blacksmith who was keeping their armor and weapons in the best condition they’d been in years. Still, the familiarity between Samuel and Philip was unexpected and, if Clint was honest, a little troubling. How much did he really know about Philip Coulson?

“I’ve known Phil for years; I can tell you all his secrets,” Samuel had said as they sat down at the table. “Trust me, you’re a lucky man, Lord Barton. Phil’s one-of-a-kind.” Clint had smiled in return and laughed when Philip told a story about Samuel, a pretty young lady, and an iron skillet. But an itch settled between his shoulder blades, distracting him from the delicious food in front of him.

“I’m heading north for a few weeks before winter sets in,” Samuel was saying. “I’ve got a bolt of yellow silk for Melinda McCarter and new pipe work for Leo Huskey’s latest invention. Plus, Old Man Singer always buys unusual books, and I found a trunk full of the strangest texts at an estate sale; I promised him first choice.” Clint took a bite of his lamb and focused in on the information rather than the casual tone, pushing the strange ache away.

“Melinda’s still wearing yellow?” He remembered her from his youth; the McCarters were one of the oldest retainers in the holding. There had been a McCarter at the founding of Frasierton, and they had been the first family to renew their oath when Clint took the title of Lord. Richard, the current Laird of the clan, had ridden down that first week with his two oldest sons, stayed a few days, and drank all the ale Clint had on hand before he headed back to his home.

“A McCarter never forgets,” Samuel agreed.

“Yellow?” Philip asked.

“When Melinda married Richard, his mother took an instant dislike to her. That’s McCarter tradition, I understand; the worst mother-in-laws. Melinda’s from a wealthy family near the capital and she is short, round, and the sweetest woman anyone would want to meet. First winter festival, her mother-in-law gave her the ugliest yellow satin dress, knowing it wouldn’t flatter her. Melinda wore it with pride and took to wearing yellow all the time, smiling and being as happy as you please. Dame McCarter never forgave her, but she eventually stopped bothering Melinda.” Clint cleaned his plate and thought about a second helping, then decided to wait on the pie.

Natasha said, “Sounds like a woman after my own heart.”

“Are you planning a progress, milord?” Samuel asked. It was tradition for a new Lord to visit his retainers within his first year, but most of them didn’t inherit a hold with so many immediate needs to oversee.

“Eventually,” Clint hedged. He really hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Spring at the earliest. The roads can be treacherous in winter.” The itch was spreading up into his neck, causing an ache at the base of his skull.

“We’d appreciate it if you let us know any issues you run across,” Philip said smoothly. “Are you coming back this way or heading on to Stark territory?”

“Stark has invited me to winter there, but I’m thinking of staying with Luke, helping out with some commissions.”

Luke looked up from his conversation with Jessica at the mention of his name. “You can go on to Stark’s. I know you enjoy the use of his workshop. I’ll be fine.”

“You’d be welcome here,” Philip offered. The pain bounced up to Clint’s temples, and he winced.

“Pie!” Theodore brought out the warm slices and began placing them in front of everyone. Glad for something to do, Clint ate, the comforting taste a reminder of his youth, days spent climbing trees and gorging on the crisp fruit. The happy memory settled him, and he polished off the desert without speaking, the conversation flowing around him. Twice, Philip’s elbow bumped his – he was right-handed to Clint’s left – and each touch jostled him with little bounces of energy. Pushing his chair back, Clint rose and walked down the line of tables. He stopped to chat with Rodriguez who had already finished her second piece of pie; the woman could out drink and eat most of the men as well as out fight them. She was magic with a quarterstaff, creative and very loyal. Everyone was in high spirits; good food would do that, and Philip had made it happen in just one day. Glancing up, he caught sight of Philip, his head bent towards Samuel’s. With an absent gesture, Philip pushed his hair out of his eyes, and Clint saw the sparkle in those blue-green depths as he laughed at something Samuel was saying.

“Only one slice?” Andrew was asking, drawing Clint’s attention back. He was holding out a pie tin with one last piece. “After that display this afternoon, you deserve it.”

For a second, Clint thought the man was referring to what had happened in the apothecary (hands wrapped around his arms, hips sliding together) then he realized Andrew meant the archery field (a distant echo of a simple melody that faded quickly). “I grew up eating pie, remember. Our cook, Petyr, used to make these small handheld fried pastries this time of year, sprinkle them with sugar, and I’d steal them while they were still too hot to eat.”

“Burned fingers? Some things are worth it.” Andrew settled back, his shoulder brushing along Clint where he stood behind the bench. The throb in his head was back and the pain must have shown because Andrew looked up, concerned. “Your head?” He leaned in, a hand stroking Clint’s thigh. The ache got worse, seeping into this chest, tightening, making it hard to breath. “Shall I get you something? Or do you need to lie down?”

“Clint.”  Natasha’s hand was guiding him by the elbow, back towards the head table.  “Stop being an idiot,” she hissed into his ear when they were clear of the crowd. “For the gods’ sake, you are determined to undermine any chances you have for happiness, aren’t you?”

He blinked at her. “What are you talking about?”

“If you have to listen to your dick, at least don’t be so obvious. Keep your lover out of sight of your husband.” Natasha pitched her voice low enough that only Clint could hear.

“I am not …” Pain lanced through his head, and he closed his eyes, trying to will it away. “I didn’t mean …”

She caught his chin and forced his head up, green eyes staring intently, seeing right inside of his skull and laying bare all his emotions. “Something’s wrong. Let’s get you somewhere quiet. I’ll make your excuses.”

It was easy to let her lead him, to not focus, just follow. He walked until he felt the cool air of night, the only light glowing from the window and open door behind him. The change in temperature helped; he’d been hot, just now noticing he was sweating. A few deep breaths and he started to feel better. Natasha eased him down onto what was left of a stone bench and whispered, “Stay here.”

The tiniest moments and the strongest emotions were jumbled together in his head, discordant and clashing. A memory of cook’s apple pie, his mother adding a dollop of cream on top of it, slipping it to him after his father had banished him to his cold room. The warmth of Philip’s skin beneath his palms this afternoon, heat flowing through him. The sightless staring eyes of the first man he’d ever killed, a brigand who’d meant to rob him and slice him open. A table in a crowded tavern, benches and mugs both filled, Jessica’s laugh, Carol’s indulgent smile, and Natasha’s raised eyebrow at his outrageous story. The overturned stones of the family cemetery, monuments crushed beyond recognition, names gone.

The scuff of a boot on stone didn’t make Clint turn nor open his eyes; he’d been expecting one of them to come. All of the women were mother hens, and he loved that about them.

“May I have a moment?” Philip asked, and Clint stiffened as that damned itch came back, spiraling into his neck.

“For?” The word came out clipped and short; the sound of it reverberated in his ears and increased the pounding in his temples.

“Are you … I know we haven’t …” Philip paused, collected himself. “Did I do something to anger you?”

“No.” He couldn’t explain what he was feeling to himself much less out loud, but he knew he needed to say more. “Natasha sent you?”

“She suggested it, yes.” There was the smallest hint of a laugh in Philip’s words.

“Nat’s suggestions are more like orders.” Clint could sense Philip’s nearness and the solid presence helped, shielding him from the light that made the pain worse. “I have a headache. They come on suddenly and without warning sometimes.”

“I know a little about those.” Philip dropped down into a squat and put his hand on Clint’s knee. “Maria is subject to terrible ones, and I learned a few techniques to help. Would you mind?” How had they gone from this afternoon in the shed to this formality? Clint didn’t know. But the warmth of Philip’s palm was comforting so Clint nodded in assent. The pads of Philip’s fingers gently touched Clint’s forehead, smoothing away the furrows before they rested on Clint’s temples and applied the lightest of pressure; even that made the beat of his heart thrum through his head. Pain flashed in rhythm and he bit his lower lip to keep in the groan. Philip moved, running his hands through Clint’s hair and down to the back of his neck, finding new points there and pressing. The pain shifted and poured down to those spots; Clint’s head cleared, but the hurt ran along his spine instead. Shifting, Philip straddled the bench and sat beside Clint; one of Philip’s hands rested around Clint’s wrist, closing the circle like earlier, and the power flowed from neck to hand and back to neck again. Pain was replaced with heat; Clint felt his muscles relaxing as the ache dimmed and faded away. For the longest time, they sat that way, Philip’s touch easing Clint into a more relaxed state.

“Is that feverfew?” Philip asked. Clint glanced at the overgrown bush beside him.

“Could be. Grandmother Frasier was an herbalist; she made all kinds of salves and lotions, even elixirs but those were mostly pure grain alcohol,” Clint answered. “She took her medicine every day.”

“That explains the apothecary.” Philip’s hands keep working, slow circles with his thumbs, easy strokes with his fingers. Clint felt lighter, the throbbing ache retreating.

“This was her garden. She used to grow roses and other plants, some even poisonous. I’d climb the wall and sneak in since it was off limits to everyone. It was always quiet and peaceful.” He closed his eyes and drifted, forgetting what he was worrying about before.

“My mother was a healer as well. She always kept the most meticulous garden; I used to help her tend it. Surprisingly, pulling weeds can be very soothing.” Somehow, Clint had leaned back into Philip’s chest and now could feel the way the words vibrated along his body.

“Is this some kind of magic?” He meant it as a joke, but he felt Philip startle, the smallest of hesitations, and the flow was broken as hands dropped away.

“No.” Another short answer, this time from Philip. They could not seem to have a conversation without saying the wrong things. Clint remembered too late Natasha’s rumor about Philip’s mother.

“Reminds me of a man I meet once, an Asarian. Taught a fighting style with trigger points in the body.” Clint tried again. “I saw him bring a big man down with just a pinch of his fingers.”

“Oh.” Philip relaxed at Clint’s explanation. “The man who taught me was a doctor and Asarian too. Very unusual, but his methods work.”

“I’d say. I could sleep right here,” Clint knew he was mumbling, but he could feel himself slipping out of consciousness, a deep exhaustion taking him.

“You should lie down in a dark room. I’ll bring you some cool water and a cloth. Sleep is the best cure.” Clint let Philip herd him back into the Hall and down the corridor towards their room; he was lightheaded and definitely not himself. By the time Jessica brought in the ewer and Natasha stopped in to check, he was already fast asleep.

…………………………………………

In the last two days, Philip had been busy from sun up to long past sundown, learning about his new home, the people who lived there, and what needed to be done. He’d toured the manor and the grounds with Natasha, ridden the wall with Jessica, and talked about fortification needs with Carol. Mayor Garrett hosted Philip for lunch again, introducing him to more of the townsfolk. Bruce had looked over the garden with intense interest, helping to identify the many rare medicinal plants that were growing wild. In the afternoon, Philip made time to work with the guard, training right alongside them and working on his aim with the crossbow. It wasn’t all smooth going; he was still an unknown, and it would take time for people to learn to trust him. The overt support of Clint and his thanes was welcome, but would only take Philip so far.

Philip hadn’t seen much of Clint. His husband had slept fitfully the night of his headache, leaving Philip to lay awake and remember the way he’d felt Clint’s eyes on him while sparring with Carol and the desire that had sparked so quickly afterwards, almost embarrassingly so. Then Clint had changed, sharp words and angry looks at dinner, but reversed again under Philip’s fingers, relaxing into his hold. In the morning, Clint had been curled up tightly, and Philip let him sleep. A series of mishaps on the wall kept Clint busy outside the manor, a section collapsing and wounding three men. Clint was up before sunrise the day after that, off to oversee the mixture of the chinking compound and the repairs.

When Philip did manage to sleep the next night, he dreamed.

Glowing green walls, endless corridors that became tunnels with neither rhyme nor reason. Circles of flames trapping and chasing him, angry voices calling his name. Then there was the rocking of a ship and the drag of calloused hands on his skin, flickering energy trailing along the fingertips’ path, purple sparks that illuminated the darkness. Body heat mixed with the cool metal of chains against skin, kisses moist along his spine, a hand closed over his mouth, muffling his cries.

“What is this?” Clint whispered, lips brushing Philip’s neck. “What are you?”

 “Shhhhh,” Philip warned, bearing down with his forearm on those broad, muscular shoulders so hard he knocked a tome off, books tumbling from the shelves. “Come for me.” A command, voice low and harsh; Clint arched and caught at Philip’s hands, winding their fingers together. Power flared, purple shadows at the edge of Phil’s vision, and then it wasn’t Clint beneath him. The man’s dark hair was slicked back, his brilliant blue eyes as cold as mountain snow.

“You have no idea, do you?” he asked.

Philip jerked away with a cry, the abrupt shift forcing him awake, his breath coming in short gasps. He was achingly hard, close to the edge, just the friction of the sheet enough to make him bite his lip to keep from moaning. The faintest beginning of light filtered in the window, the quiet of the hour before dawn surrounding the manor; Clint was face down, arm thrown across Philip’s midsection. Brain spinning far too fast, Philip tried to make sense of the very vivid dream, staring at the ceiling for long minutes, but his body had different needs. Closing his eyes again, he willed his heart to slow down.

“Shhhhhh.” Clint’s hand slipped lower until his thumb brushed across the aching tip of Philip’s swollen cock.  A soft moan; the touch felt good and Philip wanted more, so he turned his head and looked into those ever-changing eyes, blue now in the darkness of the room. Lifting up on his elbow, Clint moved over him, and then his mouth covered Philip’s in a soft kiss. Philip slid his knee over and Clint straddled it; the semi-hard line of Clint’s erection rasped along the curve of Philip’s thigh and they groaned at the same time. Maybe it was the time of night, the secret moment when all the demands of the daylight were forgotten, when they were nothing but two men with desires. Whatever the cause, they moved in unison, warming the covers around them until sweat beaded at the back of Philip’s neck and a bead ran down Clint’s cheek. Aroused flesh rubbed, a hand circled around Philip and he arched up as Clint’s slickened fingers worked him open then Clint was pushing inside, welcomed and filling in a way Philip had never imagined. Press and retreat, tangled and joined, no words, just sighs and moans; Philip’s climax was like an ocean swell that rose to a peak and then gradually retreated. He floated, meeting Clint’s last few thrusts with his hips, tightening his knees around Clint’s ass and holding him as he came. Clint’s hands traced up Philip’s side and down his arms until their hands clasped and Clint’s head was resting on Philip’s chest.

“Good dream or bad dream?” Clint asked.

“Good then bad.” Philip’s whole body was relaxed now; he could go back to sleep easily, but the sun was up, light growing in the room. 

“If I have to wake up, this is a good way,” Clint rolled over and flopped onto his back.  “I hope the rest of the day is as nice.” He pushed up on his elbows and reached a hand over to stroke Philip’s hand.

The purple spark jumped between them, bright in the dim light, the crackle loud.

“What is …” Clint started to ask.

A knock sounded on the door. “Clint?” Carol’s voice was pitched low, but carried into the room. “We need you in the hall.”

They rolled out of bed instantly and dressed with practiced precision, pausing only to clean themselves off. Hurrying, Philip came into the hall just behind Clint and saw a young boy slumped by the fireplace, drinking water in fast gulps, his hands shaking. Long slashes rent his too-small shirt and leather vest along his left side; he held his arm against his chest, red stains already turning brown as the blood dried on the cloth. His face was pale, smears of dark stains from his fingers marring his cheeks and forehead. Big dark eyes, half out-of-focus and far too large for such a small face, stared up at them. Carol was standing next to him, a burning anger in her eyes, and Jessica hovered just behind.

“Lord Barton?” His voice trembled, but he held himself together.

“Yes. You’re safe now.” Clint dropped down to one knee, bringing himself to eye level. Philip caught sight of Theodore and William hovering just outside the doorway; he waved them over.

“Get Clerk Banner. Run. Tell him he’ll need supplies,” he whispered. Theodore nodded and darted off, out the kitchen door.

“I saw it; they was going to kill ‘em.” The boy blinked, tears gathering in his eyes, and looked even younger. Philip had guessed him to be around fourteen, but now he wasn’t sure.

“Start from the beginning, Burton,” Jessica coaxed, laying a hand on Carol’s arm when she would have spoken. “Tell Lord Barton the whole story.”

“Bandits, milord. They came in the middle of the night, after my Mum had put us all to bed. Da and the other men went out to stop ‘em. Miz Farland down the way was screaming then she stopped and then they came to our house.” Big fat tears streaked his cheeks as he spoke. “Mum told me to run, but they caught me and I bit the big ugly ‘un to get away. Mr. Farland put me on a horse, told me come here, to tell you they was going to keep fightin’. I left ‘em, my brothers and sisters, left ‘em there.” He began to sob then, thin shoulders shaking.

“You did the right thing, Burton. We’re going to take care of them.” Clint nodded to Carol over the boy’s bowed head. “Where do you live?”

“Caine’s Cross, milord. The east road.” He coughed and tried to answer. “And my name’s Burtie. Nobody but my Mum calls me Burton.”

“Okay, Burtie. I’m going to ask you a few questions. Just answer the best you can.” Clint began asking specifics: how many bandits, how well armed, and previous problems in town. As he pulled the information from the boy, Philip sent William off to the stables to get the grooms started preparing horses and Nathan, his black hair standing up in different directions, was sent to Dax to make travel packs.

When Clint was finished, Jessica put an arm around the boy. “Come on Burtie. We’ll get you some breakfast and some clean clothes. Lord Barton will take care of your family.”  Philip noticed she didn’t promise they’d be alright; from the boy’s story, he doubted there was much chance they’d all emerged unscathed.

“Get the horses.” Clint ordered. The mantle of command fell easily on his shoulders; this was a role he was comfortable with. “We’ll ride within the half hour. Take five of the guard, one of them Rodriguez. Sounds like a small band but we’ll have to run them to ground. We make an example of them.”

“Not we,” Carol argued. “You’re a Lord now, Clint. It’s my job to ride into danger; you have a different responsibility.”

“These are my people and I’m still your commanding officer.” Clint wasn’t swayed. “You’re staying here; this could be a feint to draw us away. Jessica can go with me.”

“Clint,” she shook her head. “Natasha is perfectly capable of defending the manor. You might need me.”

“Natasha won’t be back until tomorrow.” That was news to Philip; he didn’t even know she was gone.

Carol wasn’t done yet; she turned to Philip. “Explain the role of a Lord to him, Philip.”

“I agree with Clint.” He saw the surprise on Carol’s face. “Were Clint an established Lord, well-known by his people, I’d say your plan would be best. But right now, the people need to see him protecting them; if events go the way you think they will, we’ll all have plenty of battles to face.”

For a moment, Philip would swear he saw a flicker of purple in Clint’s eyes. “Be sure and keep the work on the wall going,” Clint aimed his words at Philip. “The manor is yours; keep them safe.”

“I’ll roust Anders and Quincy; I saw Salinas and Pratt already …” They walked away and Philip took his own leave. He looked into the kitchen where Dax was taking some of the still hot meat rolls from the oven to add to the food satchels. He’d taken some time yesterday to organize his meager belongings into the wardrobe – and he’d thought of the cart filled with the possessions he’d packed, his clothes, his books, all on their way from Tarian Castle. Where would he put it all? He busied himself getting a pack together, not thinking about the number of times he’d done this before, readying others to go into danger. The door swung open, and Clint stepped in; Philip realized the air still smelled of sex, the covers askew on the bed.

“I put in what I thought you might need. It could take a few days to track them back to their hiding place,” he said as he sat the satchel down by the door. “We’ll take care of things here.”

“You packed for me?” He stared at the leather bag. “Why?”

“To help you get on the road faster. Dax has some food stuffs ready and I’ll go check on the horses while you gather the guard.” Philip started to move past Clint, but he caught his elbow and held him back.

“You are …” Clint searched for the right word, “… completely unexpected. Thank you.” His other hand curled around Philip’s neck and drew him in for a quick, but very thorough kiss.

“You’re welcome.” Philip smiled in return.

………………………………

“Is this where you tell us we’re not wanted in the manor anymore?”

Philip knew this meeting wouldn’t be easy; looking at the group gathered in the hall, the worry and sullen resentment on their faces confirmed his suspicions. There were seven of them, the camp followers, five women and two men. He’d taken the time to learn their names before he’d called them together, to find out a little about each one of them. He needed to settle their place here before he interviewed townspeople for jobs later this afternoon. And none of this was about the brown haired man that seemed to put his hands on Clint quite often or the way Philip felt when he saw how Clint laughed and smiled at Andrew.  None of that entered into the equation.

 “No. There’s plenty of work for everyone; this is where we talk about what job you want to have in Lord Barton’s household.” He saw the look Andrew and the other man exchange a glance; well, they were going to have to get used to using Clint’s title.  With Clint on his way to Caine’s Crossing, now was as good a time as any to beard this lion.

“You mean Clint?” Rachel called out; the blonde had asked the first question, her disdain for the proceedings obvious.

“I mean Lord Barton. We all need to cultivate the habit; the people here and the other landowners will expect it.” He was going to have to be blunt, he could see. Only two of the women – Darla and Sophia – seemed the least bit open to listening.

“Of course, Lord Barton … I mean you not Clint. Two Lord Bartons is going to get confusing fast,” she drawled. This morning she was clad in a pair of oversized leather pants and a linen shirt clasped around her waist by a wide belt; Philip had never seen Rachel wear a dress in his short time here. She seemed to be the spokeswoman for the group, but Philip suspected others were simply biding their time. Andrew’s green eyes were following his every movement, weighing and judging.

“Lord Philip is fine.” That earned him an eye roll and two sighs. He waited until they’d settled back down and stared each one down in turn; Fury called Phil’s ability to wait calmly the greatest weapon in his arsenal. Very few people could stand the silent regard for long. Sure enough, Rachel dropped her own gaze first; Andrew lasted the longest but even he succumbed quickly.  “How long have you been with Clint’s company?” He addressed the question to Ivan with his dark hair, dark eyes, and silent behavior.

“Four years.” A heavy accent colored his words, but there was no trace of sarcasm.

“Ladies?” Philip asked. “How long?”

“Six.” Nila, a lovely dark-skinned woman, answered with a quiet voice; she barely looked older than fifteen, but Jessica had told him she was over twenty years old. They thought.

“Two for us,” Darla answered for both herself and Sophia. They were sisters, Jessica had said; they went everywhere together.

“Three,” Rachel said. That just left Andrew who shrugged when the others looked to him.

“A year and a half.” His answer held a note of bragging as if he was challenging them all to make a comment.

“Then you know Lord Barton and you obviously care enough about him and this company to come here with them. This is his home, these are his people, and you can see how much they’ve suffered; regardless of what you think of me, you owe it to Clint to do the best you can to help him rebuild. I promise if you help us, this can be your home as well.” Cynicism ran deep and Philip expected nothing less than the silence that greeted his words, but he hoped he’d sown a seed of trust. “Now what are your skills?”

Nila spoke first. “My father was a scribe,” she offered. “I can read and write in three languages.”

“Excellent. With all the workmen we’ll have and Dax’s lists of required ingredients, there will be a large amount of correspondence.” An assistant hadn’t been on his short list but would certainly be welcome.

“I can sew,” Sophia said. “Darla too, but she prefers needlework to mending.” Darla glowered but didn’t gainsay her sister’s comments.

“Gardening.” Ivan kicked his feet up on the next bench and said no more than that.

“Well, my mother was a whore and daddy one of her customers. My skill? I give a fantastic blowjob.” Rachel threw out the challenge that Philip was expecting and prepared for.

“Fair enough. But this is a manor, not a brothel; everyone needs to contribute to the day-to-day running of the house. If you’re willing, you can fuck everyone and anyone who agrees on your own time. No one will be forced to have sex, and rape will not be tolerated.” Several heads whipped up at that statement, shock in their eyes.

“You going to throw me out if I don’t work?” Rachel pushed and they all waited for his reply.

“You’re welcome to stay on in town and of course you may visit whomever you wish here. There are at least two taverns that may be hiring.” Philip held his ground.

She huffed, crossed her arms under her breasts which plumped up cleavage even more. “Are you sure we can’t come to an arrangement? Nights will be long and cold in the winter once the newness wears off.”

“Not the right equipment, but thank you for the offer,” he calmly replied. That earned him a chuckle from Ivan and Darla, plus an appraising look from Andrew. “I wouldn’t mind fresh sheets on Lord Barton’s bed, or clean clothes to replace soiled ones if you’ve a mind to work the laundry.”

Laughter bubbled up from her throat. “You just might be trainable, Lord Philip. But I’ll turn down the laundry. What I can do is bake bread and make a pie crust that will melt in your mouth. Dax could use the help.”

That just left Andrew; he offered up an easy smile. “Always have loved working with horses.”

“A right horse whisperer is our Andy,” Darla agreed. “Can talk a woman out of her underwear and a horse straight through a river without balking. Silver tongued devil.”

“Good. I’ll be hiring more help today and there’s plenty to do to get started now. If the King does come to visit, we’ll need all hands on deck to make a good impression.” He nodded, dismissing them. He hadn’t won the battle, he knew; there were still so many challenges left.

“Lord Philip,” Andrew said, pausing close enough to reach out with his hand and touch Philip’s arm. “If you need help …”

“I appreciate the offer.” Philip was cautious in his reply, wondering exactly what the man thought to accomplish.

“It is a difficult position you are in. But we do all agree. Clint … Lord Barton is worth the effort,” he said with a smile as he left the room.

“Very interesting strategy,” Annamarie said. She was standing in the doorway that led to the demolished wing of the Manor, hands on her hips. Younger than Philip but older than Clint, she had a smattering of grey strands in her brown hair, laugh lines around her brown eyes and an easy smile. With a glance, she seemed the antithesis of Clint’s three thanes; extra weight clung to her hips and her curves were from childbirth not muscles. But she was just as strong as the others. “Are you always so soft-hearted? That’s trouble in the making there.”

“Are you always so straight spoken?” He’d been warned by the Mayor and a few of the townspeople that Annamarie was too disrespectful of authority, but that only made him want to talk to her more.  “Thank you for coming.”

She nodded, a shadow floating behind her eyes. “I haven’t been here since the attack.”

“If it’s too difficult …”

“No, it is time. Mother always said to face my problems.” She walked into the main hall, eyeing the tables and empty walls. “So much to do yet, so much lost. Although mother would be happy to see those tapestries gone. She always hated them. Made the room very dark and dreary, she said. Who wants to see bloody corpses depicted in thread while they eat.”

Philip let her talk, knowing she was dealing with reminders of her own grief.

“And you want me to take charge of this place? I will speak my mind, be warned. I’m not a sycophant like Garrett and I won’t stand for whoring from my staff nor lazing about. If they do their work and cause no trouble, they’re welcome.” She was looking for Philip’s reaction.

“Agreed,” was all he said. “When can you start?”

She laughed, a hearty sound that echoed around the bare room. “Since you’re stacked like cordwood up here, I’ll be living at home until suitable quarters are available for me and the twins. First thing, I handle the hiring of the kitchen and manor staff; you won’t know the slackers from the good ones. No special treatment regardless who’s who. Now, what’s first?”

“Lord Barton wants us prepared for winter, so foodstuffs and weatherproofing.” Philip followed her as she led the way out of the hall towards the kitchen.  “I’ve gotten a start building up the larder …”

…………………………………………………

Seven bodies lay in the outer yard of the inn, and Clint took a moment to look them over before he swung down out of the saddle. Two were obviously bandits from their attire, faces marked with red patches of burned skin. The others -- two men, a woman, and two young boys – were locals; copper pennies covered their eyes, payment for the ferryman who would take them safely into the afterlife. 

“Lord Barton.” The man who came forward from the crowd was in his late thirties, dressed in homespun breeches and linen cloth with a leather vest tied closed. A big boned man, he bowed his head briefly. “My Burton? He reached you?”

“Safe and in the care of Clerk Banner for his wounds.” Clint couldn’t help but notice the looks exchanged from the handful of men and women who’d come out of the inn to greet the party. There’d been fear at first, but now there was something akin to hope.  “I need to know what happened here.”

“Of course, My Lord,” another man pushed forward; his clothes were of better quality, and he looked less harried, more like a man who’d had a good night’s sleep. “I am Elder Gregor, and I’ll be happy to explain …”

“Thank you, Gregor, but I would like to hear from  …” Clint looked at Burtie’s father and waited.

“I’m Ferguson, milord.” His eyes darted between the other man and Clint, a bit of concern there.

“… Ferguson and I’ll want to speak to Farland as well. Shall we?” Clint didn’t wait, walking up the steps and into the main room, expecting the others to follow.  Setting the tone, that was what Natasha called it, ensuring the people understood he was in charge here. Jessica, he knew, would stop to check out the bodies, to look for any clues as to their identities. 

“Farland’s bad off, milord,” was the first thing Ferguson said after Clint sat down on a bench. A mug of ale appeared in front of him; the older woman bobbed a curtsey and went back behind the bar where a slim man about her age was working. “That’s his wife and two sons out there; he’s with Old Man Singer right now.”

Gregor snorted at the statement, and Ferguson stopped talking. Crossing his arms, Clint waited, taking a sip of his ale to cover the silence. Finally, he spoke to Ferguson. “Tell me what happened, start to finish.”

“We live on the north side of town, us and the Farlands and the Donaldsons, up near the woods. Been a hard few years, here on the edge. There’s always the occasional wolf or bear or sometimes even stranger creatures that get lost and wander our way, but nothing like this. We had a gimlet picking off sheep, a wolf pack that ain’t scared of nothing but hard steel, and a rugar sighting over near Donaldson’s Meadow.”

“Now that’s just a story and you know it,” Gregor interrupted. “We have no proof of a rugar.”

“We killed a mother and her cubs two days ago near Frasierton.” Clint fixed the pompous man with a stare that would stop a sensible person. “Please, go on,” he asked Ferguson.

“There’s been a few robbings on the roads, mostly the wooded sections in the foothills towards Stark’s, but they’ve never bothered a town before. Picking off lone travelers, that’s what they’ve been doing. We just travel in groups with swords, and we were alright.” Ferguson’s hands were shaking slightly, whether from the trauma of the night or talking now, Clint didn’t know. But he was scared of something. With another glance at Gregor, Ferguson kept going. “They broke into Farland’s house; first sign we knew was Sue’s screams. Farly was outside, checking on his fence line; he’d lost some of his best laying hens to a wolf last week. Woke me and my wife up. That was the only reason we had time to get ready for ‘em. Bron, she got the kids out, told ‘em to run to the circle, and then they were at the door. Wasn’t ‘til later that Farly told us he’d sent Burtie on to get you.”

“Why would they attack you? Were they looking for something?” Clint asked. It was odd; bandits usually took the path of lesser danger, opting to rob those weaker than themselves and chose targets with the most money or gold. Two farmer’s homes didn’t fit that pattern.

“That’s the weird part. They didn’t say nothing, just sat about trying to kill us. We’d have all been dead if it weren’t for Old Man Singer showing up with his magic.”

“There is no such thing as magic!” Gregor burst out. “That old man is a charlatan, a trickster. Tells his stories and takes your money for herbs and sleight of hand, that’s all!”

Clint held up his hand to forestall any more interruptions. “I’ll thank you to keep your tongue, Elder Gregor. You’ll have your turn. Now, how did Singer get there and what did he do?”

“His place is close; it was Farly’s little girl. She crawled out a window and ran.” He didn’t explain why the child would go to Singer’s; that was interesting. Clint filed that fact away for later. “He threw fire at them – you can see their burns – and the others got scared and ran. We’d be dead if he hadn’t shown up when he did.”

“Alright, tell me as many details as you can about the bandits. How many, male or female, marks on their bodies, anything at all out of the ordinary,” Clint asked. Something about all of this was off and it was niggling at his brain.

“Well, milord, their eyes were odd.” Ferguson leaned forward. “They were all blue. Not just normal colors, but glowing, even at night.” 

[cakeisnotpie]

Bonds Of Old

Chapter 3: Trials and Old Friends

Rated: M

“There is no way I can handle a visit from the King!” The thin man with skin the color of ebony waved his spoon at Jessica; she was less than impressed by the tirade of angry words aimed her way. “You promised me help and all I’ve got is a handful of lay- abouts and those boys. And the food here? Bland. Spices! I need spices!” Jessica saw Philip in the doorway first; the cook turned and his dark brown eyes widened.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Philip said smoothly. “I just wanted to see about breakfast. Something smelled good.”  He’d hazard a guess that the cook was from the Eastlands, his head shorn of all hair and wrapped in a white cloth.  Tattoos ran down his neck, one a brightly colored pattern of swirls, the other the tail of a dragon that disappeared under the collar of his shirt. A dark band of black ink circled his left wrist.

“There’s porridge with raisins and some honey if you like, Milord. It’s plain, but filling.” He tipped his head and dropped his eyes, confirming Philip’s suspicion that the man had been an indentured servant at one time. In some part of the East, the poor sold themselves for contracted lengths of time; at the end, they would be freed and, in theory, earn a bonus to help them establish a new life. Of course, that all depended upon the owner of the contract, and the justicars often looked the other way at abuses.

“That would be perfect.” Philip held out his hand for the filled bowl and took the honey pot in his other.

“An early riser?” The cook asked. “Clint will be dragging in once the sun is up; I best get the coffee ready. Man is addicted to the stuff, the darker, the better. Would you like a cup, Milord?”

“Indeed I would, but I like mine more cream than coffee.” As vices went, coffee and wine and books were Philip’s favorites.

“Leche manchada? I can do that. Cream, we have.” He busied himself measuring out the ground beans; the aroma hit Philip’s nose, and he breathed in deep of the eye-opening smell.

“This is Dax,” Jessica said. “Best cook of the seventy companies. It was a coup when we talked him into joining us.”

“Tell the truth now, miasha. Clint won me in a card game.” Dax’s smile was wide and warm; he was quite handsome, some part of Philip’s brain registered. Not blonde haired, stormy blue-grey eyes handsome, but there was only one Clint Barton.

“Sounds like a story I’d love to hear someday.” Philip spooned up a bite; it was warm and sweet from the honey, but not very exciting.  “As to spices, I think I can help you with that. I know a Merchant who works out of the capitol, can get almost anything. He makes a run up this way every two months.”

“Cumin? Tumeric? I’d kill for some cayenne or ghost chilies. I send those boys into town, and they come back with naught but chickens and potatoes and oats.”  He shook his head. “White flour and tough cuts of beef. Nothing I could serve the King, that’s for sure. I made them a list for today, and they’ll come back with the same things.”

“Today is market day?” Philip thought about it for a moment; he had a hundred places to start here in the Manor, but there was something to be said for getting to know the townspeople and no better way than some shopping. “That sounds good to me. By boys, I assume you’re talking about the pages-in-training?”

Jessica snorted at that. “More like troublemakers-in-training, those three. They’re a handful.”

“Tell you what. Make me a list of spices you want, and I’ll send a letter off asking about the prices. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do about a better variety for now.” Philip was already calculating in his head how much gold and silver from his stash to take with him. Best to start off paying up front and build a good reputation before asking for credit … and he needed to get to the books to see just what financial state the holding was in as soon as possible. “As to getting you help, that is top priority, but I wouldn’t worry about the royal visit. The King always brings his own chefs with him and only eats food prepared by their hands. Too many times that leads to a pissing match between the royal cooks and the cooks of the keep. Best to just let them have at it; we don’t have to foot the bill for his extravagances that way.”

“Ah,” Dax smiled. “I speak little English, yes? No understand, just cook.”

“Exactly.” Seems Clint surrounded himself with smart retainers; Dax had hit on the perfect solution. The King would be expecting a poor showing from the new and struggling Lord Barton. Why not use that to their advantage? “Now, what else do you need in the kitchen? I know about the missing silver; how are we set for pots and pans?”

It took close to half an hour and two cups of coffee before Philip was ready to go; the sun was over the horizon, and he spared a second to remember the way Clint had looked when he’d left him in bed, hair wild, face half-buried in a down pillow that he’d scrunched up between his crossed arms, the quilt caught around his hips. During the night, his shirt had ridden up, leaving a little bare strip of back with those delectable dips at the bottom of his spine. Philip had been so tempted to lean over and drop a kiss into each one of them, but he wasn’t sure of the reception, so he’d slid out of bed, washed with the tepid water that no one had changed from the night before, dressed, gathered up his dirty clothes to find out how laundry worked around here, and left the room. Even now, he had yet to see anyone moving other than Dax, Jessica, Carol, and the early change of guards. Natasha, he’d learned from Carol, was a night person, rarely showing herself until long after sunrise; there were rumors that she actually didn’t sleep which would explain how she knew everything about everyone. Clint would be in shortly, the rest of the troop, as well except for those who had the night watch, but the others, the ones Philip called camp followers, would sleep until well past noon. Tucking away the notion of meeting with all of them to discuss the issues, Philip rounded up two of the erstwhile pages plus a dog cart and headed off for the short but brisk walk into the town.

Most towns held weekly markets where locals brought their produce and products to sell and Frasierton was no exception. Three times, once during each season, there would be a bigger festival where other craftsmen and vendors set up stalls; people would come in from the outer farms and smaller villages, and there would be singing and dancing and all kinds of fun, according to Theodore and William, the two pages. Theodore was tall and bulky, a budding young warrior if ever Philip had seen one, shock of blond hair he’d cut into random hanks himself standing up at odd angles. He was an outgoing, friendly type, an easy smile on his face as he never stopped talking. William, on the other hand, was slight and dark-haired; he tended to let his friend ramble on, injecting every now and then, sometimes finishing Theodore’s thoughts. Only six months separated them in age and, according to the story that never seemed to end, they’d been together since before Clint and company found them, pickpockets on a Kingston street, bound for either an orphanage or prison, neither a happy prospect. They really didn’t remember a time when they weren’t a pair. The elusive Nathan, the third boy, had been nowhere to be found; Philip made a mental note to seek him out later.

He was pleased to find an already busy market area in the center of town, stalls overflowing this early with the best of the harvest. Zeroing in on an apple seller, he sighted some winesap that looked ripe and delicious. The woman behind the counter watched him approach and the gossip network began its work, sharing the news that the brand new married Lord of the Manor was here, just what Philip wanted. As soon as his interest became clear, the woman smiled.

“Apples are good this year. Make the best pies, if I may say so, Milord.” She was older, in her forties; a younger woman behind her, probably her daughter, bounced a baby on her hip. Both of them inclined their heads towards Philip.

“Indeed they do.” He picked one up, sniffed the winey aroma, felt the rough red skin. “Where are they from?”

“Our groves are north of here, near Grays House. Been growing apples for five generations now; Lord Barton used to come up when he was a boy. He and his brother would climb the trees, I remember.”  She smiled and passed a greenish-yellow apple each over to Theodore and William who tore into them with delight despite having had two bowls of porridge before they left. “About the same ages as these two, I reckon.”

“Gentlemen,” Philip prodded, giving them a stern glance.

“Thanks,” Theodore mumbled.

“Thank you,” William said with his mouth full.

“Let’s see,” he pretended to do some quick calculations even though he knew exactly how much he needed. “Let’s say a good half a bushel of the winesap for pies and an extra half of the pippins for eating.  Do you ever sell the bruised fruit?”

“You thinking dried apples or apple butter?” She picked up a Macintosh. “These are best for drying and the pippins and winesaps mixed make excellent butter or jam. We sell the dross by the bushel starting in the next week or so depending upon the maturation of the crop.”

“What price are we talking?” It was the first volley, and they both knew it.

“Well, mine are the best apples in the whole area, so quality comes at a cost, of course.” She rattled off prices that Philip knew were inflated for here, but were still far less than he would have paid closer to the capital, and waited for his reaction.

Wrinkling his forehead, he drew out the silence for a few seconds. “Well, that’s more than I expected, but maybe we could do ….” He offered almost half of what she had originally said, but tossed in a standing order for the bruised portion for the rest of the season.

Her eyes brightened, approval clear, and the daughter stepped back to give her mother room to haggle … and to pass along the news that the new Lord was not a pushover. The back and forth lasted four rounds before Philip pulled out his pouch and mentioned he was paying today. Numbers fell fast and they settled on a more than fair price by anyone’s estimation. As she filled a basket with their purchases, she said, “It’s been a pleasure, Milord. And may I say welcome to Frasierton.”

“Thank you …”

“Madge. Tell young Clint that I said hello and not to eat so many he gets sick.” She passed the full basket off to Theodore who ran off with it to put in the cart.

“I certainly will, Madge.”

“Oh, and Milord?” She called as he turned to go. “Hammond’s squash looks extra fine this year; he’ll do you right.”

That was the best stamp of approval Philip could get, and he knew it. “Thank you. Squash soup on the menu it is.”

Hammond turned out to be a bluff, balding man with a hearty laugh and some green acorn squash that would bake up nicely and could be used as bowls. He sent Phil on to the Dawsons who had frost-kissed sweet cabbages, and Martha, a young widow raising five kids on her own, who had artichokes and eggplants. From there, he spoke to the farmer who raised the best local lamb and checked on the standing orders for milk, butter, and cheeses, picking a few new types to try. Tucked back in a side street, he found some immigrants from the Southlands who had a selection of fresh peppers and garlic. He made sure to get their names for Dax, especially when they said they’d love to plant what he needed and bring their goods straight to the kitchen door. Herbs by the bunches, wheat flour, and even some different oils were all available.  Along the way, he wrangled Theodore and William, keeping them busy waiting on packages to be ready and toting them back to the cart.  Nothing he wasn’t used to; Peter and Darcy on a good day at that age were much more demanding. These two tended to rein each other in, whole conversations happening without a word between them.

Beyond the foodstuffs, he was learning about the community, listening to them, answering their questions. It was a mutual information swap completed in innocent queries and intentionally revealed half-truths. He heard more than once about the attack yesterday and the way Clint and the others rode to the rescue, relief evident that Clint was protecting them. Talk of the rugars led to other problems – a pack of gimlets, missing flocks, unexplained noises in the night, and roving wolves – and all sorts of theories for why it was happening including bad weather, a sorcerer’s curse, and a mountain dwelling ghost who demanded payments in form of music, his personal favorite. They were worried, still affected by the events of two years ago, and Philip believed they had every right to be. As much as he learned from them, they wanted to know about him. Rather than try to insist the marriage was a love match, he let them fill in the blanks, a story quickly emerging about Lord Fury making arrangements to help Clint take care of them by sending Philip. As he moved into the artisans section of the market, he heard he was already rebuilding the manor and the tale was growing with each stop he made. By the time they found themselves at the tanner’s booth, Philip had a good idea on names, relationships, families, and reputations of the whole town.

Theodore eyed a red and green braided bracelet as Philip ordered new jackets for all three pages, black with bright purple edging for livery, and a vest of thick, cured leather to replace the one Clint lost yesterday, measurements to be sent back down with one of the boys. The black leather was soft and supple, and, on a whim, Philip went for a fancier pattern, a formal jacket with the same purple trim. After all, he hadn’t given Clint a wedding gift yet. If he had it made sleeveless to show off Clint’s arms, well, no one needed to know that was the reason why. The tanner was happy to oblige, talking Philip into a jacket for himself by offering a nice discount and agreeing to send a bill. Philip’s pouch was growing light, but he still had enough to cover the costs; the willingness to take his promised payment was a first tentative step towards building trust.

The sun was high in the sky when Philip spotted a familiar curly brown head of hair; Banner was shopping at the herb seller, picking through the varieties offered.  “Ah,” Banner said when he saw Philip. “Quite a nice selection. Some very rare kingsfoil and excellent lavender.” He stopped to smell some rosemary before adding it to the stack of purchases. “I hear you’ve been busy this morning.”

“I’m a new commodity, it seems.” He kept one eye on the boys; they were getting restless standing around. “Have you had lunch, Banner? I saw some lovely meat pies just a street over.”

“The mayor suggested the apple and pork pasty. A local specialty. And please, call me Bruce.”

Philip looked around Bruce and saw a man pass with a steaming moon shaped pastry. Turning towards the boys, he held out a half-silver coin in each hand. “Theodore, I want you to buy two mugs of cider, and William, two of those meat pies you were drooling over. Whatever you have left, you can spend or keep.  After you eat, I want you to take the cart back to Dax before noon and get started unloading.”

“Yes sir!” Theodore said, snatching the coin.

“Yes, Milord,” William answered, taking his more slowly, turning it over, staring at it. Then they were gone in a flash into the crowd.

“You know they’re going to eat themselves sick with sweet rolls,” Bruce laughed.

“Maybe. William, I think, might save part of his, but they are growing boys, and they worked hard this morning.”

They spent a good five minutes picking out their pasty; the seller, a woman about Philip’s age with dark hair who never stopped moving, gave them a free mug of ale to wash it down despite Philip’s protests. She was bribing Clerk Banner to stay in town, she argued, not the new Lord. Banner had blushed at that, hemming and hawing a little before he said thank you and took the offering. Philip knew that Carol had seen to it that Banner was paid for his part in the marriage validation, but most clerks, especially those who lived alone in the woods, weren’t the wealthiest of men.  Then she added shredded cheese on top of the pasty still hot from the grease before she passed them over. Tables scattered around the fountain in the main square were filled to the brim with people eating or talking. An older male fiddler was playing a fast tune, accompanied by a woman on the lute, their voices mixing together for the verses of a song about a man who challenged the fairy king.  As they stood looking for an empty seat, a heavyset man with flaming ginger hair waved them over to his table squeezed into the corner beside the bakery.

“Bruce!” he called. “Come sit with us.”

“That’s Mayor Garrett,” Bruce said, hesitating, waiting to see what Philip wanted to do.

“Ah, good, the Mayor.” Philip smiled and nodded, leading the way through the crowd. “Just the person I was hoping to see.” He put the pasty and mug down on the table and sat down on the bench so the others could be seated as well.

“Lord Barton, it’s good so see you out and about this morning. I hope you found all that you were looking for.” Garrett was a big man, muscle more than fat, and he had green eyes that missed nothing. Young for such a position, or maybe just one of those people who looked years younger than he was, he looked to be in his early twenties. Philip, on the other hand, had been mistaken as an adult since he was fourteen.

“You have a thriving community here and quite a selection to pick from. I look forward to the Fall Festival in a few weeks,” Philip replied.

“This year’s is shaping up to be larger and even better. The Admiral’s Players have confirmed and McKennitt will be here on Saturday evening. The craftsmen list is growing every day.” Garret made no secret of his interest in Philip, looking him over. “We hope Lord Barton will attend of course, and perhaps be the judge for the games?”

“I’m sure he’ll be delighted.” Philip took a bite of his lunch; tender pork with crisp apples, just a touch of cinnamon and light gravy all in fried dough. “Oh, this is …”

“Wonderful, yes. Annamarie is the best. Learned everything she knows from her mother. She could run the town if she wanted to.” With a smile, Garrett sat back, tossing out the piece of information for free. “Her mother was the Chatelaine of the Manor.” He didn’t have to continue with the story; Philip already knew the ending. Carol had told him the story about the last stand, how the remaining thanes and retainers had barricaded the wall and stood their ground to give the townspeople time to flee; they’d all been killed, but their sacrifice had saved many other lives.

“Mayor,” Two men stopped by the table. “Markeson is up to his old tricks again. Got his kid running interference this time. He’ll listen to you.”

“You’ll need to be careful approaching her, though,” Garrett continued as he stood, just like they were in the middle of a conversation. “She’s worried about her daughters. I told her that things had changed, that you ran a tight ship, but she’s going to want to wait and see.”

“Please let the townsfolk know we have numerous positions to fill. Three days hence, in the main hall,” Philip said.  A big smile broke across Garrett’s face.

“Of course, Milord. I know many who’ll be there.”

“The man is unique, I’d say .Didn’t even ask, just told me about a cottage with a space for a workshop just outside of town,” Bruce offered, chasing a bite down with a swig of ale. “What did he mean about her daughters?”

“A fighting company is very different a manor household. She wants to make sure there are no … other expectations of the jobs,” he answered, phrasing the situation delicately.

“So sex isn’t a requirement to work there? I can see why that distinction would be important.” Bruce’s humor was quick and made Philip smile. There was something easy about the clerk’s company; they sat and ate, watching the people come and go in a companionable silence. Numerous stares were directed their way, but Philip was getting used to that.

“Did you see a tinker or a metalsmith?” Philip asked as he took his last bite.

“Two streets over that way,” Bruce pointed as they both stood up. “By the blacksmith’s place.”

“You’ll come to dinner at the manor? Apple pie’s on the menu.”

“At least you’re subtle about it.” Bruce nodded. “I’ll see you there.”

The tinker’s wagon was parked in the outer yard of the blacksmith’s work area, wooden benches weighted down with wares that ranged from iron skillets to delicate scrollwork on belt buckles. Chainmail hung from the rafters, silverware and goblets in the shop with the wide open door. The dark skinned man by the wagon was in deep conversation with a young woman and her besotted beau; she held a lovely pin in her fingers, turning it over and over, as the two men negotiated price. They settled far too quickly … the lover couldn’t keep his eyes of the golden curls and curve of the ivory face … but the price was fair. Philip waited patiently for them to conclude business, more than surprised to recognize the tinker.

“Philip Coulson!” Samuel tilted his head and grinned. “And here I find you much further north than I would ever have expected.”

“Stop playing coy, Sam. I’m sure you know more than I do about my change in status.” He gladly returned Sam’s hearty hug, glad to see a familiar face. “And that’s My Lord to you now.”

“Oh, married a day and already gone to your head.” Sam pushed Philip back and turned to shout over his shoulder. “Luke! Come meet the newest Lord Barton.”  The man who came out from behind the anvil, wearing only pants and a heavy canvas apron, was much larger than the lean Sam, powerful arms capable of swinging a hammer, face sweaty from the heat of the fire. “My cousin, Luke. Luke, Philip Coulson.”

“Milord,” Luke inclined his head. “Sam has told me how lucky we are to have you.” Closer up, Luke was even more impressive, muscles well defined and hands calloused and capable.

“I didn’t even know you had a cousin,” Philip felt a little caught out.  Twice, Philip had traveled with Sam, using the anonymity of the visiting Tinker to collect information and learn about problems. In all that time sitting on the front of the wagon, Sam had never mentioned any family.

“I’ve only been here just over a year now. I came … after,” Luke said, not needing to finish the sentence. “Town’s done right by me. I get a good trade and even have time to meddle with some more decorative work. Mighty thankful for the opportunity.”

“Luke’s strong, no question, but he’s also got a deft eye. Ladies in other towns are starting to request his work when I come through.” Sam playfully slapped his cousin on the back. “You should order some for the Manor. I hear you might need replacement items.”

“You heard that did you?” Philip narrowed his eyes; Sam somehow always knew every detail. If he wasn’t so handy at fixing things, he’d be an exceptional spy fulltime instead of just on an as-needed basis.

“Seems the Frasier silver disappeared during the destruction of the manor. Or it up and walked out during the fight. One or the other.” Damn it, Sam knew something. “I have some basic utensils I can sell you now, but Luke here could make you a set that you’ll want to pass on to your children once you two love birds chose some.”

“I’d be honored to make whatever you need.” Luke glared at Sam who fell silent but kept grinning. “Serving pieces, spoons … and I make high quality chainmail too if you need some. I’ve been helping outfit the guard for Thane Danvers.”

“Actually, I have two lists. The first one,” Philip gave it to Luke, “is what we need as soon as possible. Some of the copper can be replated but it’s in constant use so we’ll have to rotate what we send. The second list is longer term; Lord Barton would pick the design and have final say, of course.”

Luke handed the first list to Sam who scanned over it. “Between the two of us, most of this we can have delivered by this afternoon.”

“I can have samples by early next week,” Luke offered. “Sooner if need be.”

“Next week is fine.” Philip was just glad things were moving as smoothly as they were.

“I see you’ve found the best armorer in the area,” Natasha said from behind him. Even Sam jumped at her appearance, and Sam was very aware of his surroundings. “Pots and pans for Dax? He’ll be so pleased, and I’ll be happy to hear the end of his griping.”

“Back again, Thane Romanov? Tell me you haven’t brought more mail for me to mend. I have a reputation to maintain, you know, and you manage to find new ways to challenge me.” Luke’s narrowed gaze was enough to give most men pause, but Natasha simply sauntered over to the table of wares and smiled.

“Nothing today. I came to say hello to your cousin and see what he’s picked up in his travels.” Natasha was just as eager to hear what Sam had to tell. Spy indeed, Philip thought. “And I’m looking for Lord Philip here. Thane Danvers has an appointment with him this afternoon.”

Philip knew nothing about an appointment, but he wasn’t going to let Luke or Sam know that. Second rule of a good steward, always pretend you have all the information. “I was just about to invite Sam and Luke to the Manor to join us for dinner.”

“Perfect!” Sam declared despite Luke’s obvious misgivings written on his furled brow. “I have new stories to tell from my swing through the foothills and northern reaches of Stark and Barton lands. And I’d love to meet the man who captured Philip Coulson.”

Another group of customers wandered in, one lugging a plow’s head and another with some scissors and knives to be sharpened, so Philip followed Natasha out of the yard and back towards the manor, speaking to those he remembered and anyone who spoke to him, nodding to others, aware of Natasha’s growing amusement. She didn’t speak until they were out of the city proper and on the long curving road that lead up the hill.

“So, it is true. Sam knows everyone.”

“He often circles through Tarian holdings. A good tinker is an important man to know.” Philip agreed, certain Natasha was aware of Sam’s many other attributes. “His father was a handy man to know; Sam was lucky to inherit both his father’s moral compass and his mother’s brains.” He followed as she veered off to the left, moving not to the Manor but towards the practice grounds. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“To test your mettle, Philip Coulson. Members of the company have to be able to hold their own and serve in various capacities. Carol wants to test your abilities, see what training you need.”  Natasha was deadly serious, no joking tone in her voice. “These are not the soft lands near the capital. We can all die at the end of a set of claws as easily as a sword around here. Carol takes her job as head of the guard seriously.”

He could only answer with a curt nod, her blunt words welcome. “I am more than capable of protecting myself, but I understand the need to show that to others.” His eyes surveyed the mountains in the distance, clouds collected around the uppermost slopes, shrouding the heights in mist. “Some are aware of the danger growing closer to the Midlands.”

“The people here need protecting; they’re the front line of the coming war,” Natasha agreed.

Philip started to answer, but he was distracted as the practice field came into view. Half a dozen targets were set up and archers were taking aim and firing, not from a standing position but at a dead run; they started forward in a sprint, closing the distance, firing as they went, stopping within five feet of the circle. He’d never seen anything like it.

“Watch your footing, Mikal!  You trip and you’ll find an arrow in your throat faster than the sword in your gut. Peters, get that quiver strap fixed before you hurt yourself.” Clint called out orders to a few others, praising them all for their accuracy; Philip was surprised to see how many of the arrows had hit their targets, albeit not in the center, but in battle any wound could buy time and throw off an opponent. “We’re going to try the roll and shoot again. Three at a time.” The guard, all of them except for the wounded Johnson who sat on the sidelines, Jessica and Carol included, groaned and complained but they lined up, bows at the ready.

“They all shoot?” Philip asked Natasha.

“We train on all weapons, but each has two specialties. Depth is important in a company this small,” she answered. “I assume you brought your own weapons; shall I send one of the boys to fetch them?”

“If you would. They’re in my … our room.”

She called Theodore over from where he was helping retrieve arrows and sent him up the hill. Philip saw the leather bracelet dangling from the boy’s wrist and pretended not to notice when Theodore tucked it up under his cuff.

“Show us how it’s done again, Clint,” Jessica asked, her voice rising above the others. “One shot I can see, but three?”

Clint glared at her, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “You want to bet on that?”

“A silver says you can’t make more than three,” she shot back, and a quick bidding war ensued, the pot growing quickly as others called out their bets. Carol took six, the highest number of the batch.

“If I get seven, the pot’s mine?” Clint asked. Jessica nodded and the company murmured their disbelief.

Clint turned and Philip got his first good look today at his husband. Blonde hair fell over one eye, skin tanned in the light of the afternoon autumn sun, quilted vest belted around his trim waist, arms left bare but for an arm guard on his right and a shooter’s glove on his left hand. As he stepped to the line, Clint shook his shoulders, loosening his stance; his eyes closed briefly as he took in a long, slow breath and released it, easy, his hawk-like stare on the target ahead. Extending his left arm, he drew the string with his right hand – and muscles flexed and shifted along his forearm, up through his biceps, shoulders straightening and neck exposed as he sighted down the line of his draw.

Lust sucker punched Philip in his gut, driving every bit of air out of his lungs and draining blood from his head right into his cock at the sight of those arms.  He fought the moan that came from the back of his throat, biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed to keep the sound inside.  No way he could stop the flush that spread up his chest and into his face as memories of the night before rose in his mind’s eye. Those hands wrapped around his body, the feel of those arms holding him down as Clint fucked him. He’d never felt anything as intense as this, not for anyone. The power of the emotion called to the energy banked inside, stirring it up as well.

Then, Clint moved, and Philip forgot to breathe all together. In the span of one heartbeat, Clint drew two arrows … two … and they flew towards the target, one after the other, in the time he took one step. Between step two and three, two more arrows; Philip thought only a mechanical crossbow could fire that fast, much less a longbow, but Clint made it look easy, tucking one arrow in as quickly as the string reset, before the vibration of the one before it stopped. Mesmerized by Clint’s body, the way his muscles bunched and released, how he flowed from one movement to the next, Philip saw him dip and go down, tucking his head and protecting both bow and quiver, shoulder not even touching the ground, his body flipping over. Arrow number five was notched and ready before a foot came down; Clint fired it without even looking at the target, the sixth following hard on its heels, gone just as Clint was upright. Just one more step remained before the finish line; two arrows drew back together, flew straight and the company erupted in cheers as Clint pivoted on his heel and gave a grand bow. Philip couldn’t take his eyes off of Clint’s body, his smile, or his arms. What he’d just seen was impossible; he understood the mechanics of archery, had read many books on it thanks to his obsession with a legendary archer, and he knew there was no way anyone could do what Clint just did.

“Breathe, Phil,” Natasha murmured. Blinking, he tore his eyes away and looked at the target. The eight arrows spiraled out from the dead center in a perfect seashell design.

“Fuck,” Phil whispered, so hard the seam in his pants was tightly uncomfortable. 

“He’s showing off for you, you know,” Natasha confided. “Still, that’s the best I’ve seen him in a long while. Let’s go on over and put you out of your misery, shall we?”

………………………………………

It started as an itch in his collar, right at the base of his neck, the tiniest inconvenience that made him want to scratch as he watched the company run through their drill one more time. He shrugged, moved the neckline of the quilted vest he was wearing, but the sensation only grew until it was an awareness like a physical touch, as if someone was caressing the nape of his neck. Some of the men believed Clint had eyes in the back of his head, and that wasn’t all too far from the truth; his ability to see in a wider arc, sharper, even in the dark, was a fact few people knew. He knew when he was being watched, but this was different, more intimate; the strangest thought that someone was thinking about him surfaced. Then Clint saw Natasha and Philip standing just down the road and that knowledge made the tingle become full blown arousal.

He paused, took a deep breath, and let the song of his bow sing to him as he pulled back the string; he felt his muscles vibrate in harmony like they always did, a two-part rhythm that fit together like the arrow notched onto the string. Only this time, there was another note, deep, the bottom of the chord, so faint he could have dreamed it. He shifted his weight, his heart slowed, matching the thrum of the string … and then pushed off, the first two arrows gone before he breathed again, focused not on the target but the point where the notes came together to make a whole song. The world spun around him, not the reverse, and he reached out for the new tone, drew it in, and the last two arrows flew to the conclusion.

 What exactly had just happened, Clint couldn’t say, just that he was suddenly consumed by thoughts of Philip watching him. He barely knew the man (pink lips around his cock, moist heat, strong pull as he slid back), had just met him the day before (tongue delving, sweeping over his teeth, tangling and retreating), and there was no reason to worry about what Philip thought (so tight, so good, hands extended, gripping the headboard as moans cascaded out of his mouth). He had to shake himself to clear his head; Carol was slapping him on the back and the others were all talking at the same time. Jessica was grinning and he knew he had to say something.

“What’s the take, Jess?” He asked.

“Fourteen silver, milord,” she answered, her not so subtle way of reminding him of his new position.

“Tell me, Philip,” he tossed back over his shoulder “What will fourteen silver buy us for dinner?”

“I’ll send word for a casket of that lovely honey hard cider Madge makes. Should go well with the apple pie Dax is making for desert.”

The others roared their approval as Clint turned to find Philip, his face flushed, eyes darkened even greener with lust. The warmth spiraled, circled its way down Clint’s spine in response.  “I think it’s your turn, Philip.”

“Where do you want me?” Philip eyes widened slightly as he realized what he’d said.

“Here’s good,” Clint couldn’t stop himself from answering.

“Swords first?” Philip tried to continue but fell silent.

It was Carol who stepped in. “How are you with a bow? We can start with that until Teddy gets back.”

“Passable, but after that display, I’m afraid I can’t measure up. Better with a crossbow than a longbow,” Philip admitted. Carol nodded and a black-haired female fighter picked one up off the rack and passed it over. A well-used crossbow, tiller oak and crank worn with a smooth action, it fit easily in his hand. Walking over, he lined up for a target, took a stance and lifted the bow.

“Hold,” Carol said. “Clint?”

This was their usual method of testing; she’d defer to Clint’s opinion on the bow, Natasha’s on hand-to-hand, and Jessica’s on strategy and style. Carol was the best swordsman, but she was smart enough to know to rely upon the others’ strengths as well. So he circled Philip, checked his body position, nudged his elbow up higher, and straightened his shoulders before stepping up behind him, leaving barely an inch between them as Clint sighted down the tiller. Close enough to feel the heat of Philip’s skin and to sense the rise and fall of his chest. “Classical position, three/two hold … you learned from a professional, probably from the capital. Best Fury could find, eh?”

“Captain of the King’s Guard. Kenneth, not Donaldson,” Philip admitted. From here, Clint could see Phil’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed, track the tiny bead of sweat that rolled along Phil’s jaw.

“Go on, let’s see how you shoot.” He didn’t move back, hoping he was as distracting to Philip as Philip was to him. Philip huffed, cranked the string back, loaded a bolt and took his time aiming before he fired. The bolt hit the center circle, not in the exact middle, but a good first try. “Again.” He trailed a hand down Philip’s arm, corrected the horizontal line, and let his fingers brush Philip’s bare wrist. The second shot was close to the first, and the third as well. “You lead to the left; ever shot with your lens on?”

Philip looked surprised. “No. I mean, I assumed I wouldn’t have them in battle.”

“True, but if you were on a battlement as support, they might mean the difference between wounding and a kill shot," he suggested as he turned to Carol. “Crossbow is up to standards.”

“Okay, let’s see how you are on swords.” Carol had her sword out and stepped into the middle of the field; all the others had gathered on the side and people were coming out of the Manor, a few even wandering up from town to watch. Theodore had returned, Philip’s matching set of short swords in his hands. Clint went to stand by Natasha, a tangled knot of arousal and anxiety in his gut, as if he could sense Philip’s own nerves despite his unflappable demeanor. Watching as Philip took off his jacket and shirt and shrugged on a quilted vest for protection, Clint could hear the undercurrent of excited murmurs. The swords he drew out were well-used, not just show pieces, and the way Philip carried himself showed all the hallmarks of a seasoned fighter. As Carol took her place, a hush fell as they all waited.

Sparring was not the same as real fighting. Clint had seen many a person who knew all the correct moves and could take all the points in a match, but there were no rules in battle, no applause for style, just being the first one to strike and the last one alive. Carol never approached training the way fancy instructors did; she lashed out, not a feint, but a swing with strength behind it. Philip countered with one sword, bringing the second around underneath, aiming for Carol’s midsection … and the battle was joined. Carol was power, harsh strokes that drove weaker opponents backwards, wearing them down until they made a mistake and left an opening. Philip was fluid movements, two places at once, swords flashing, and hypnotic. He kept the fight on his own terms rather than letting her set the agenda. Carol took a step, changed her strategy, pulling back and going on defense, and they fell into testing each other, trying new techniques to see the response. At a point, Carol laughed.

“Fury truly has someone to teach Florentine?” she asked.

“I preferred dimacheraeri though,” Philip answered, and he went on the attack, broad overhand strokes that needed both Carol’s sword and her buckler to deflect. Sweating now, no talk, they got serious, and Clint had trouble following the trading blows. He held his breath as they moved across the field, seemingly intent on killing each other. Focusing in on Philip, Clint was mesmerized by the effortless way the man moved, so graceful and fluid … and his brain immediately pictured ways to use that talent for more pleasurable goals. His cock hardened as he let his mind spin a little fantasy with those swords and Philip’s naked body. Then it was over, Carol’s strength not lagging; Philip stepped back and lowered his swords.

“Oh, thank the gods,” she laughed between breaths. “I thought you wanted to keep going. Definitely rated for combat with my full support.”

Natasha whispered. “I almost came just from watching that.”

“You and Carol both, I imagine.” Both women found skill arousing, but they were especially drawn to men who respected their strength as well.

Philip was surrounded by well-wishers, and Clint stayed back. All morning Clint had heard Philip’s name; he’d pretended to be asleep when Philip woke, playing coward to avoid an awkward morning conversation, waiting to rise until after the sun was up. First stop, the kitchen and Dax was singing, happy to fill Clint in on the new pots and pans and spices Philip had promised.  Then he’d come across a despondent Nathan, upset that he’d missed the chance to go to town with the others. Clint’s next point of order was to ride another section of the wall, checking the foundations and marking the worst damage; for a bit, his morning was quiet and normal, but then Jessica joined him with Carol’s plan for the afternoon’s training with Philip. Lunch was more than the usual chunk of bread and cheese; Theodore and William had returned, full of stories about their adventure, sugar from sweet rolls clinging to their worn tunics. And yet none of it had prepared Clint for watching the man he’d married stand toe-to-toe with the best damn swordswoman Clint had ever seen and hold his own. Hell, Clint would be hard-pressed to defeat Carol if it ever came to that; he’d have to go for the distance shot and hope she didn’t get within weapons range. Philip, on the other hand, wouldn’t win any awards with a bow, but his two-handed fighting style was versatile and elegant … and sexy. Even now, Clint was stirred up, and he knew he was staring at Philip’s bare arms, thinking of that sweaty neck beneath his lips

“Oh please,” Natasha sighed. “Come on.” She caught his arm and made her way through the crowd; Philip looked his way and Clint almost stumbled at the intensity of the desire there. “I think we can wait until tomorrow for my chance,” she said to cover the rather awkward moment of silence. “Clint said you needed to speak to him about the ledgers and accounts?”

It took a few seconds for Philip to process that statement. “Yes. Assuming you want me to help with those? I’d be glad to, of course.”

“Help? No, you can have them!” Jessica replied. “I’m more than happy to pass those wiggly lines off to someone else.”

“Jess is good with numbers, but not so good with sitting indoors for hours,” Carol supplied, grinning fondly at the black-haired woman. “Natasha has been handling the contracts and other official missives.”

“A task I won’t miss either,” the red head proclaimed. “Philip can get you to pay attention to the details, and I won’t have to threaten to kill you quite so often.” She nudged Clint with her shoulder.

“Thank you, ladies, I think we can manage from here.” Clint tried to see the humor in the situation; at least Philip was getting bullied by them as well. “Shall we?”

Stopping to pick up his shirt and jacket, Philip carried them with his sword belt as they started to the manor. The training yard was a meadow at the bottom of the rise; the remains of other smaller outbuildings wound around the small hill. A guardhouse where the men used to barrack in a dozen or so rooms. A gardener’s cottage, storage for the stables, and even a small chapel were little more than rectangles of fallen stones.

“I know some architects and stone masons who would be interested in the work. If you wish, I could contact them to come give us an appraisal. The guardhouse, the roof of the main hall, weatherproofing the existing parts of the house and the stables would be first priority, unless you think otherwise.” Philip was always so tentative, Clint noticed, deferring to his judgment. It was a shame that Clint knew next to nothing about what he was doing.

“You don’t have to do that,” he told Philip, slowing down to turn towards him. “You’ve run a large holding, know what to do, how to make sure it’s done well. That’s all I ask.”

“It’s important for your company and the people here to know you’re the Lord of the Manor,” Philip replied. “I’m not one of them; they want to respect you and are grateful you’ve returned.”

“Natasha would have told me to buck up and be a man. You’re much more eloquent about it,” Clint laughed since both amounted to the same piece of advice.  “She likes you, by the way. I think she’d even consider having sex with you.”

Philip’s eyebrows rose at that; Clint already liked poking at Phil’s self-control. “Unfortunately, as much I find her to be a lovely woman, I’m more of a cock man, myself.”

“I think I got that last night,” Clint said with a slow smile.

He wasn’t sure who made the first move, who grabbed who and dragged them inside the apothecary hut with its walls and half roof. They were walking one moment, and then they were entwined, mouths connected, tongues sliding in, hands splayed on backs, hips snug against hips. The shock of cock slotting next to cock, friction sending little sparks of lust, overwhelmed Clint; he needed, needed to touch, to fill, to release. The heat in his groin exploded as Philip’s hands settled around Clint’s biceps, squeezing tight as he arched up and ground his cock alongside Clint’s.

“I need … I need …” Philip was groaning into Clint’s mouth then Clint’s knee came up between Philip’s legs and he rubbed shamelessly against the leather.  Sparks traveled down Clint’s arms; he grounded his hands on Philip’s shoulders, pushing him back against the rock for leverage, and they were a circle, clicking closed, containing the passion between them. It flowed back and forth, building quickly, hotter, stronger until Clint could hear it again, the hum of tones in harmony.

Philip bucked, his head falling back against the wall and a pulse of energy slammed into Clint. He whispered “Phil” against the pale expanse of neck, just before he came, his climax intense and quick. As he came back to himself, he dropped his hands and link was broken; he could hear distant voices outside, the sounds of steel clashing on the practice field.

“Sixteen,” Philip said. “You’d think I was still sixteen. Someone could have heard or seen us.”

“That’s why it’s exciting,” Clint laughed, stepping back and avoiding a broken table. “The fear of getting caught. Although I really don’t have that many pair of clean pants, so next time we should try to get naked.”

“Oh, laundry. That’s something else I need to check on.” Philip tried to cover the obvious stain with his vest.

“Let’s start with the books, shall we? That’s bad enough for one day.” Clint hated bookkeeping, truly hated it. Well, at least he’d had gotten off twice in the last 24 hours, so staring at little numbers on a page would be bearable for a bit.

“If it helps, there’s squash soup and lamb for dinner?” Philip offered.

“Apple pie and Dax’s lamb?” Clint thought about it. “Yes. That just might do.”